Thursday, February 28, 2013
059. He's here a day early.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
058. Comparison
BUT IF I GET APHRO THEN IT'S PRETTY MUCH MANDATORY THAT I GET DEATHMASK
AND IF I GET BOTH APHRO AND DEATHMASK, WHY THE FUCK AM I NOT GETTING SHURA TOO (COME ON TEAM MIDYEARS)
AND IF I GET SHURA WELL SHIT I BETTER HAVE CAMUS READY JUST FOR HIM
AND IF I HAVE BOTH SHURA AND CAMUS THEN I'LL HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET SURPLICE SAGA
AND IF I OWN THAT MANY BY THAT POINT ANYWAY, I MIGHT AS WELL ROUND IT OUT WITH SHAKA AND MU (AND SHION) FOR CHILDHOOD'S SAKE RIGHT
UGGHGHGHH
Oh and before you think GOSH JING'S A GONER WJHAT IS WRONG WITH HER, check out what a REAL fan looks like:
I'm relatively not obsessed at all. Nope. Not at all.
Alright I mean I could probably see myself getting two Sagas and one Kanon tops EVER, but still never anywhere near whatever shitfest this lady has going on with SERIOUSLY SIX Sagas and THREE Kanons???!?!?!?!!? WHAT
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
057. Between
Monday, February 25, 2013
056. Ididit.png
Sunday, February 24, 2013
055. Caught in translation, part 5 (fin)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Alternatively, try the complete and uncensored version.
Snow finally fell starting at noon. D and E bid them goodbye, as they wanted to hitch south. Winter here was too cold.
After they left, B and A did not speak for a very long time. By the time the roadside surroundings were steeped in white, they still hadn't spoken.
When they passed a gas station B used the last of their cash to fill up, of course most of it done without the attendant's noticing. At the station's convenience store he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, two candy bars, and two pairs of cheap sunglasses on sale.
Handing one pair to A, he put on the other pair and flashed a smile: "We could be Bonnie and Clyde."
A could only smile at his strange comparison.
B popped open the bottle and switched to a rock music station. The alcohol passed back and forth between them. B sang along to a song.
His voice was cracked and broken, like a crippled violin or a harmonica out of tune.
A said, "I see why you shouldn't sing anymore."
B was caught in the music and paid no mind.
When the song ended he said, "If you ask me, I say the only joys of this world are sex, booze, and rock-and-roll."
"Then the only misery would have to be insomnia."
B laughed, "Good to see you have a sense of humor."
"Just telling it as it is."
"But really, what's up with that?"
"Hm?"
"Your insomnia. Tell me, maybe I know something that can help."
"It's no use."
"So it's like cosmic payback?"
"Absolutely."
"Do you dream?"
"No, never. But sometimes, when I can't tell whether I'm actually awake or asleep, I have these hallucinations."
"Like what?"
"Like... You're interested in this stuff?"
"I'm always interested in you."
"Hm. Well...how do I explain. It's a state of mind right between sleeping and waking, where your body feels unmovable and sluggish, but your mind is still aware and thinking. Everything is jumbled like multiple fruit juices mixed in a punch, all flavors mingled with only a hint of what each originally was. Everything tastes familiar, but no single thing you can name. So other than jumbled, there is no distinct taste."
"I feel jumbled just listening. So what do you hallucinate?"
"Water, most of the time. I don't know why, but it's always a river of some kind. Sometimes turbulent, sometimes gentle and slow. The only thing I know is that it's icy cold, so I have to make sure I don't fall in."
"You're one normal-looking madman."
A laughed.
"I always see wheat. Wind blowing through a field of wheat. Do you ever get that?" B suddenly asked, falling serious.
"No."
He shrugged.
"I keep feeling some part of me is broken, but I can't figure out where. Maybe it's here," A pointed to his head. "Or maybe it's somewhere even deeper, beneath the scope of the human body."
"Yeah." B thoughtfully nodded in agreement.
He turned to look at A. The latter had on his sunglasses, wearing little expression as usual. No matter what happened, B would always recall certain things, certain memories, that would never allow him to hate A. He didn't know whether A remembered those too. In A's words, on the day he left, he had settled everything clearly: "Things happened that never were supposed to happen." The B of now no longer felt any of his rage from then. Time indeed was the greatest weapon, to slay no matter whatever kind of beast. When the imbecile conceit and rebellious animosity of his youth faded like mist, B found his aging body to not be as reliable as he had thought. Once, he had worked very hard trying everything - travel, escape, living to A's exact opposite, blazing, making love - he gave his all. But deeper down he knew none of this had made anything better, and instead they ground a large, solid, black body within him. He understood that all of this was meaningless. The only thing that remained was his desire to be with A, very extremely so, even if sixteen years of separation stood now between them.
He suddenly threw down his shades. "Let's make love."
A froze.
B said, "Shit! Did you not fucking hear what I said?"
A still didn't say a word. He was afraid to even look in his direction.
B grabbed the wheel with one hand, his other catching the shift lever.
"Are you crazy?"
"Stop the car," B grasped his hand, "Dammit A! Stop the car."
"You..." A finally parked on the roadside, his mildly angry face obscured by his shades.
"You don't know what I want to do?" B ripped the sunglasses from his face. "Then you better look closely." He unbuttoned his army jacket, undressing quickly.
A watched him, his brother, impatient as he often was in childhood. Every time when his patience wore thin, his eyes would always turn vicious as they did now. He was down to just his flannel shirt, his fingers now working the buttons - and his pure flesh broke free. A body so familiar, a body laden with details he once intimately knew and loved, a road through lost woods leading him home. There were smooth white paths, lush luxuriant jungles, peaks, valleys, a tuft of crystal blue water weeds, a warm and cozy cave. It was a wonderland in which he was so often lost in his youth, a place that he thought he had already escaped from. Only now did he realize that, no matter how far he ran, he had never really left.
His head faintly throbbed.
He suddenly recalled a conversation he once had with his therapist, an exchange that he thought was bogus at the time. He asked him, "What do you think determines fate?"
A said, "It depends on where I choose to go."
The therapist smiled. "It depends on where you came from, for you will surely have to return. Yet you are scared to look back, and so you fall sick."
A pulled the hand brake, his body crossing to the passenger side. Gently he brushed aside B's shirt, his eyes boring into the beating heart beneath those white plains. B's hands caught his back, arching to reach his neck, greedily covering every inch of him in kisses. When he finally reached A's mouth, he hesitated at the door. A tremor shook A numb as he buried his head down, catching B's tongue. His movement compared to B's was delayed, his hands traveling slowly as if caressing an old piece of antique. He gazed into B's face like how he had gazed into mirrors for countless years, past its lake-smooth surface, past the depth of time. B desperately bit his upper lip at the moment of his entrance. His hands knotted in swirls of A's hair, like an ibis whose talons became trapped by weeds, unable to go, on the verge of drowning any minute. Thus he held tightly onto A, as if they were still closely linked within mother's womb, as if grasping the only solid rock upon a marsh. Vast emptiness all around, and only this to save him from sinking beneath mud.
Until their mingled breaths turned to mixed white mist, B finally laughed. "Car's dead."
"Fuck," A said.
-
"It's too cold, can't get it into ignition."
B was still dressing. "We should do a couple more rounds. That way we won't freeze no matter how cold it gets."
"Let's go."
"Do what?"
"Try walking. Maybe there'll be a gas station soon and we can get people to haul us."
"Isn't there another way? It's all snow out there, we could be walking forever."
"You can wait here, I'll go."
"There's no way I'm freezing to my death alone in a car."
The snow had stopped. A thin layer covered the road, with endless white to either side.
"What can be more unfortunate than this," B complained as he walked.
"Having to listen to you whine." A said, walking ahead.
"Screw you.
"Hey, let's rest a bit. Maybe a car will come by and we can hitch a ride."
A nodded to agree, so they cleared some snow and sat down, breathing onto and rubbing their hands.
"We'll see whether anyone's willing to get us to Denver once we're at the gas station," A said.
"In other words, there's no way we'll be there by tomorrow."
"Looks like it. I'll have to call and tell them to not wait on us."
"It's not like he'll rot in this weather." B took out two cigarettes, lighting one for each.
"Fuck this weather, fuck sitting on the road with more endless road ahead. My pants are heavy and wet, I can't feel my hands, another part of me is freezing with every passing second - can it get any worse?" B pointed with his cigarette hand. "I was just thinking that this all looks familiar. I remember now, it was just like this when I first left Denver. Snow all over the place with no ride to hitch. I sat by the road just like this, imagining you sitting by a fire, and I got mad pissed. I finally ran into a Mexican who gave me a lift to Kansas, and he even gave me an ukulele. I had wanted to gift it to you, but you wouldn't want it.
"After that I simply walked along this road, from snowfall to snow melt, from dry grass to dry wheat, until dry wheat turned to whiskey, and Denver turned to New York."
A heavily exhaled smoke, looking into the far distance.
"So, only now do I realize why I keep dreaming of wheat in the wind. In those endless days I kept walking, hitching, working for change, and then more walking. I remember at first, I kept going because of you, because you betrayed me. But later I started doubting whether I even hated you, because you know, on a road, there is little choice but to keep going. Then I got to New York and thought I'd finally forgotten you, along with those wheat-filled roads.
"I finally remember."
-
When they arrived in Denver, the funeral service had long since finished. It was evening. A bought a bouquet of wild chrysanthemum, taking B to the cemetery.
Few people were around with night approaching. The overturned earth next to the tombstone was still fresh, decorated with flowers. The sky was overcast, silence abound. Snow fell from a pine branch in the distance, alarming birds into flight. The hill was covered in neat rows of tombs, casting dark shadows under low clouds. B took the bouquet from his hand, crouched down, and studied the words carved on father's stone. He brushed snow off the tablet, laying down the flowers.
He cleaned snow off himself and stood up. He aligned himself alongside A, two sharp figures in black, materializing as if one.
"Let's go," A said.
"Where to?"
"Home. Sleep, a long rest. I finally feel tired."
fin.
The World of Yesterday
Original by 老莫, translation by dren
Congratufuckinglations, you just finished your first Saint Seiya tanbi. Look to these two from my last piece now and see whether anything feels different:
But even if you don't that's fine too, because I totally finished painting way before I ever came across this piece of literature anyway. But I was definitely surprised even as I looked back to this between reading and translating.
Therefore meet A, and meet B.
I chose to do this because this was such a terrific textbook example of what it means to stay in character. Despite the fact that this universe looks nothing like the world of Saint Seiya, A was undoubtedly and recognizably Saga, and B could not have been truer to Kanon. This is not to mention that the actual story itself somehow managed to give the vibe of Arundhati Roy's A God of Small Things. I can't possibly give a higher compliment than that.
Here's a lis of the rest of the cast/guest stars:
C (Kanon's ex-lover who sacked his apartment in NY) = Cancer Deathmask
D (the sunshine extroverted hippie boy whom Kanon gave mutual blue balls) = Scorpio Milo
E (Milo's quiet redhead companion) = Aquarius Camus
F (the first male Saga slept with since Kanon) = Pisces Aphrodite
The complete version with names uncensored will be posted all in one piece on Ash, once I finish final editings.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Alternatively, try the complete and uncensored version.
Snow finally fell starting at noon. D and E bid them goodbye, as they wanted to hitch south. Winter here was too cold.
After they left, B and A did not speak for a very long time. By the time the roadside surroundings were steeped in white, they still hadn't spoken.
When they passed a gas station B used the last of their cash to fill up, of course most of it done without the attendant's noticing. At the station's convenience store he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, two candy bars, and two pairs of cheap sunglasses on sale.
Handing one pair to A, he put on the other pair and flashed a smile: "We could be Bonnie and Clyde."
A could only smile at his strange comparison.
B popped open the bottle and switched to a rock music station. The alcohol passed back and forth between them. B sang along to a song.
His voice was cracked and broken, like a crippled violin or a harmonica out of tune.
A said, "I see why you shouldn't sing anymore."
B was caught in the music and paid no mind.
When the song ended he said, "If you ask me, I say the only joys of this world are sex, booze, and rock-and-roll."
"Then the only misery would have to be insomnia."
B laughed, "Good to see you have a sense of humor."
"Just telling it as it is."
"But really, what's up with that?"
"Hm?"
"Your insomnia. Tell me, maybe I know something that can help."
"It's no use."
"So it's like cosmic payback?"
"Absolutely."
"Do you dream?"
"No, never. But sometimes, when I can't tell whether I'm actually awake or asleep, I have these hallucinations."
"Like what?"
"Like... You're interested in this stuff?"
"I'm always interested in you."
"Hm. Well...how do I explain. It's a state of mind right between sleeping and waking, where your body feels unmovable and sluggish, but your mind is still aware and thinking. Everything is jumbled like multiple fruit juices mixed in a punch, all flavors mingled with only a hint of what each originally was. Everything tastes familiar, but no single thing you can name. So other than jumbled, there is no distinct taste."
"I feel jumbled just listening. So what do you hallucinate?"
"Water, most of the time. I don't know why, but it's always a river of some kind. Sometimes turbulent, sometimes gentle and slow. The only thing I know is that it's icy cold, so I have to make sure I don't fall in."
"You're one normal-looking madman."
A laughed.
"I always see wheat. Wind blowing through a field of wheat. Do you ever get that?" B suddenly asked, falling serious.
"No."
He shrugged.
"I keep feeling some part of me is broken, but I can't figure out where. Maybe it's here," A pointed to his head. "Or maybe it's somewhere even deeper, beneath the scope of the human body."
"Yeah." B thoughtfully nodded in agreement.
He turned to look at A. The latter had on his sunglasses, wearing little expression as usual. No matter what happened, B would always recall certain things, certain memories, that would never allow him to hate A. He didn't know whether A remembered those too. In A's words, on the day he left, he had settled everything clearly: "Things happened that never were supposed to happen." The B of now no longer felt any of his rage from then. Time indeed was the greatest weapon, to slay no matter whatever kind of beast. When the imbecile conceit and rebellious animosity of his youth faded like mist, B found his aging body to not be as reliable as he had thought. Once, he had worked very hard trying everything - travel, escape, living to A's exact opposite, blazing, making love - he gave his all. But deeper down he knew none of this had made anything better, and instead they ground a large, solid, black body within him. He understood that all of this was meaningless. The only thing that remained was his desire to be with A, very extremely so, even if sixteen years of separation stood now between them.
He suddenly threw down his shades. "Let's make love."
A froze.
B said, "Shit! Did you not fucking hear what I said?"
A still didn't say a word. He was afraid to even look in his direction.
B grabbed the wheel with one hand, his other catching the shift lever.
"Are you crazy?"
"Stop the car," B grasped his hand, "Dammit A! Stop the car."
"You..." A finally parked on the roadside, his mildly angry face obscured by his shades.
"You don't know what I want to do?" B ripped the sunglasses from his face. "Then you better look closely." He unbuttoned his army jacket, undressing quickly.
A watched him, his brother, impatient as he often was in childhood. Every time when his patience wore thin, his eyes would always turn vicious as they did now. He was down to just his flannel shirt, his fingers now working the buttons - and his pure flesh broke free. A body so familiar, a body laden with details he once intimately knew and loved, a road through lost woods leading him home. There were smooth white paths, lush luxuriant jungles, peaks, valleys, a tuft of crystal blue water weeds, a warm and cozy cave. It was a wonderland in which he was so often lost in his youth, a place that he thought he had already escaped from. Only now did he realize that, no matter how far he ran, he had never really left.
His head faintly throbbed.
He suddenly recalled a conversation he once had with his therapist, an exchange that he thought was bogus at the time. He asked him, "What do you think determines fate?"
A said, "It depends on where I choose to go."
The therapist smiled. "It depends on where you came from, for you will surely have to return. Yet you are scared to look back, and so you fall sick."
A pulled the hand brake, his body crossing to the passenger side. Gently he brushed aside B's shirt, his eyes boring into the beating heart beneath those white plains. B's hands caught his back, arching to reach his neck, greedily covering every inch of him in kisses. When he finally reached A's mouth, he hesitated at the door. A tremor shook A numb as he buried his head down, catching B's tongue. His movement compared to B's was delayed, his hands traveling slowly as if caressing an old piece of antique. He gazed into B's face like how he had gazed into mirrors for countless years, past its lake-smooth surface, past the depth of time. B desperately bit his upper lip at the moment of his entrance. His hands knotted in swirls of A's hair, like an ibis whose talons became trapped by weeds, unable to go, on the verge of drowning any minute. Thus he held tightly onto A, as if they were still closely linked within mother's womb, as if grasping the only solid rock upon a marsh. Vast emptiness all around, and only this to save him from sinking beneath mud.
Until their mingled breaths turned to mixed white mist, B finally laughed. "Car's dead."
"Fuck," A said.
-
"It's too cold, can't get it into ignition."
B was still dressing. "We should do a couple more rounds. That way we won't freeze no matter how cold it gets."
"Let's go."
"Do what?"
"Try walking. Maybe there'll be a gas station soon and we can get people to haul us."
"Isn't there another way? It's all snow out there, we could be walking forever."
"You can wait here, I'll go."
"There's no way I'm freezing to my death alone in a car."
The snow had stopped. A thin layer covered the road, with endless white to either side.
"What can be more unfortunate than this," B complained as he walked.
"Having to listen to you whine." A said, walking ahead.
"Screw you.
"Hey, let's rest a bit. Maybe a car will come by and we can hitch a ride."
A nodded to agree, so they cleared some snow and sat down, breathing onto and rubbing their hands.
"We'll see whether anyone's willing to get us to Denver once we're at the gas station," A said.
"In other words, there's no way we'll be there by tomorrow."
"Looks like it. I'll have to call and tell them to not wait on us."
"It's not like he'll rot in this weather." B took out two cigarettes, lighting one for each.
"Fuck this weather, fuck sitting on the road with more endless road ahead. My pants are heavy and wet, I can't feel my hands, another part of me is freezing with every passing second - can it get any worse?" B pointed with his cigarette hand. "I was just thinking that this all looks familiar. I remember now, it was just like this when I first left Denver. Snow all over the place with no ride to hitch. I sat by the road just like this, imagining you sitting by a fire, and I got mad pissed. I finally ran into a Mexican who gave me a lift to Kansas, and he even gave me an ukulele. I had wanted to gift it to you, but you wouldn't want it.
"After that I simply walked along this road, from snowfall to snow melt, from dry grass to dry wheat, until dry wheat turned to whiskey, and Denver turned to New York."
A heavily exhaled smoke, looking into the far distance.
"So, only now do I realize why I keep dreaming of wheat in the wind. In those endless days I kept walking, hitching, working for change, and then more walking. I remember at first, I kept going because of you, because you betrayed me. But later I started doubting whether I even hated you, because you know, on a road, there is little choice but to keep going. Then I got to New York and thought I'd finally forgotten you, along with those wheat-filled roads.
"I finally remember."
-
When they arrived in Denver, the funeral service had long since finished. It was evening. A bought a bouquet of wild chrysanthemum, taking B to the cemetery.
Few people were around with night approaching. The overturned earth next to the tombstone was still fresh, decorated with flowers. The sky was overcast, silence abound. Snow fell from a pine branch in the distance, alarming birds into flight. The hill was covered in neat rows of tombs, casting dark shadows under low clouds. B took the bouquet from his hand, crouched down, and studied the words carved on father's stone. He brushed snow off the tablet, laying down the flowers.
He cleaned snow off himself and stood up. He aligned himself alongside A, two sharp figures in black, materializing as if one.
"Let's go," A said.
"Where to?"
"Home. Sleep, a long rest. I finally feel tired."
fin.
The World of Yesterday
Original by 老莫, translation by dren
Congratufuckinglations, you just finished your first Saint Seiya tanbi. Look to these two from my last piece now and see whether anything feels different:
But even if you don't that's fine too, because I totally finished painting way before I ever came across this piece of literature anyway. But I was definitely surprised even as I looked back to this between reading and translating.
Therefore meet A, and meet B.
I chose to do this because this was such a terrific textbook example of what it means to stay in character. Despite the fact that this universe looks nothing like the world of Saint Seiya, A was undoubtedly and recognizably Saga, and B could not have been truer to Kanon. This is not to mention that the actual story itself somehow managed to give the vibe of Arundhati Roy's A God of Small Things. I can't possibly give a higher compliment than that.
Here's a lis of the rest of the cast/guest stars:
C (Kanon's ex-lover who sacked his apartment in NY) = Cancer Deathmask
D (the sunshine extroverted hippie boy whom Kanon gave mutual blue balls) = Scorpio Milo
E (Milo's quiet redhead companion) = Aquarius Camus
F (the first male Saga slept with since Kanon) = Pisces Aphrodite
The complete version with names uncensored will be posted all in one piece on Ash, once I finish final editings.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
054. Caught in translation, part 4
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Alternatively, uncensored final draft here.
"Look at those two," B pointed.
"I guess they need a ride." A flashed his headlights.
"Let's do it. They probably won't see a second car on this road tonight."
He slowed and reached a full stop. B switched on the interior light and rolled down his window. The one who approached was a long-haired hippie, blonde with sensuous lips, very friendly. "Hey, can we hitch a ride? Don't want to freeze to death here tonight."
"You got any money?"
He flashed a smile. "As much as you want."
"Get in here," B smiled back. He was attracted to this man's forthright musical voice, and A could tell he was attracted to his other things, too. He knew without looking.
They got in the back. B twisted around to shake the blonde's offered hand. "I'm D, and this here is E."
"B." He motioned with his eyes, "That's A."
"Very nice to meet you guys. I like you car," D answered blithely.
"So where are you headed?" B grinned at A with pride.
"Yorktown, not too far. Keep on this road and we'll be there by morning."
"It's so fucking cold here," B glanced at the silent E, taking in his red hair.
"Yes indeed. We got whiskey though, you want some?" D's fervor added positive heat to the atmosphere within the car.
"Hell yes!"
D pulled out a half-drank flask from his knapsack, took a swig, and offered it to B. Their hands overlapped as he took it, and D did not pull away. Blue eyes met blue eyes. B smiled with an understanding, and passed the flask to A after one swig. The latter thanked him as he took it.
"Where you guys from?" B asked.
"Texas."
"I love that place. Always wanted to meet a real cowboy."
"Go to a rodeo."
"I've seen that on TV once. I liked watching men wearing those hats, sitting on bulls, screaming as they get flung off. If it were me I'd make sure I'm grabbing a bottle with my other hand."
"Haha, you could try." D's laugh was resounding and infectious. The flask was passed back to him.
B fished out his weed, his back now against the glove compartment as he turned to face D. The occasional roadside light bathed his face in alternating light and shadow. His smile exposed flashing teeth, impish and untamed.
He rolled and lit a blunt, took the first hit, and offered to D. "I think you guys will love this."
The latter smiled back as he inhaled, licking his lips. "Very nice."
B stared with undisguised intent, unable to take his eyes off. D's lips were as blossoms raised in whiskey, vulgar yet tender. He kneeled on his seat and reached back, catching D by the chin. The latter opened his mouth, twisting it into a smile. B rubbed his thumb along D's lower lip as he hurriedly took a second hit, pushing the blunt to E. His hands caught the back of B's neck as he bit into his lips.
They had no need for further pleasantries or delays. Perhaps tonight was their only chance, and some people were not finicky about location or time.
E crossed his legs as he smoked, tapping A to pass. A held the blunt in his mouth, and E retracted into a corner to avoid the other two. He pulled his jacket on more tightly and closed his eyes.
B tore at D's hair, his nose digging into his face. Their heavy breathing was quickly masked by the sound of saliva.
D's fingers were rough, his stubble was rough, his every kiss and touch were all rough. He was like weaved hemp, simple, practical, sandy with a hint of assault. B liked this.
D tore at his flannel shirt. B's eyes were closed, his hands dismantling a disarray of blonde hair, his mind succeeded by body. When D's icy finger reached the exposed skin of his chest he shivered, goose bumps rising on cue, but he found D's stroke exceptionally erotic, along with the glossy look in his eyes and the beauty mark upon his neck. He aroused in him the will to fight.
And D did know how to please. B simply held onto his head, giving free reign to D's hands to snake his body like eels. He willfully trapped his moans within his throat, his body fevering to the point of sweat.
He pulled one hand free to recline the passenger seat, his other hand supporting his weight upon D's shoulder. He began kissing him from the neck down as if to weave him new skin using his lips. When he reached his bare shoulder he finally lost balance, tumbling into the back seat. D rolled to make room. But as he approached D's lower abdomen he suddenly stopped, leveling up to meet the other's gaze. B tugged at his collar, touched D with his nose, and clambered back into the passenger seat.
Perhaps they stopped out of the same consideration.
B straightened his clothes and fixed his belt, feeling the irrepressible heat of just moments ago steadily subside. Replacing it was a heavy and mysterious affection, an age-old and familiar fondness, so ancient that it no longer held any color of desire and was instead a calling, a buried remembrance.
D leaned against the door, watching E. E's eyes were open, watching him back.
"Do you mind if we do it in the back?" D asked.
"No," A slurred, the blunt still in his mouth. Both his hands were on the wheel, his eyes staring meticulously dead ahead. Smoke slowly trailed from between his lips.
B felt a deep hunger clawing out from within his heart, striking him with hallucinogenic effect. Bit by bit he could no longer sense D's mingled breathing in the back or notice the car engine's lull, as if everything faded to oil stranded upon water, gorgeous in granules. Keenly-edged but blunt, scorching yet frigid, exhilaration in exhaustion, passion in despair, dry ice in flames. And A, his brother, sitting a mere arm's length away by his side, emanated an irresistible seduction through his impassive indifference, his monumental nonchalance. His tenderly amorous eyelids just so had to frame cruel pitiless eyes, his thin nose bridge chiseled toward thin nose alae, his lips closed wordless yet still asserting fervor. His delicate features held no aggression in despite of their knife-like frost. B studied him, poring. This is the face of my brother. An archaic castle braving the storm alone upon a cliff, persevering yet in precarious water. He felt parched as he stared, writhing in his seat, his right hand reaching for the blunt.
"You said you wouldn't smoke any more, I remember."
"Mh." His answer again came as a slur.
"Therefore..."
B caught it between index and middle finger, slowly withdrawing the burnt roll from A's mouth. His thumb put out the spark without his hand ever leaving his lip, his index finger lingering. He slid along the line of A's closed mouth, shutting his eyes to maximize sensation. He felt the gentle movement of A's lips against his fingertip in a snail-like dance, moist, unhurried, miniscule. Cautiously he kissed his finger, his lower lip stirring again and again.
A unthinkingly tightened his grasp on the steering wheel as he tentatively brought his tongue to B's finger. Tobacco, bitter salt, and a spiciness that tasted like a long-missed prelude to love. His next kisses came faster, stronger, aggressive with a tinge of almost impatience. B inched his hand closer, guiding A's lips down the base of his finger toward his palm, along his life line toward his wrist.
A felt an inner convulsion gradually take over his conscious mind, his open lips composing love upon B's wrist, his mouth liquid, his eyes mist. B's taste had always been his one Achilles' heel, more dangerous than any drug. He was lost in defeat without even yet touching him.
He hit the brakes abruptly, skidding the car to a stop.
D, crudely flung over in the back while in the middle of passion, vehemently cursed: "Shit! The fuck's wrong with you!"
But when he saw B hastily pulling back his hand, right away he laughed. "We can do this together."
B turned his head aside. "I'm gonna sleep."
A restarted the car.
-
Alternating light snores filled the ambience within the car. A switched the radio station, turning the volume low. No talk shows were on through the night, and music was soothingly hypnotic. A female jazz singer's voice was hoarse. A stared at the stretch of road ahead outlined by his headlights, ever-so-slightly starting to wonder whether taking this trip was an irresponsibly impulsive move.
When he was seventeen he decided to leave home. There were numerous reasons that drove him into leaving, but he did not enjoy recalling any one of them. He was often thankful that he was able to start over in a new place where no one knew him; no familiar faces, no rolling recollections. If he could stave off having to remember, then even powerful memories could eventually fade in time. He did not remember much about father. Even if he was bad-tempered and prone to occasional abuse, most of the time it was B who braved the belt or stick, while he stood quietly to the side. He thought pain was perhaps the bond between B and father, still a stronger link than what he had with the man. He was never scared of him; he pitied him instead. A man of such caliber and strength succumbing to age, while he himself grew only stronger with time.
Father never spoke much about mother. A felt he didn't hate her, but she made him morose. For a rugged man like his father, open discussion on feelings was not a manly dignified thing to do. One of the only things A learned from him was to talk less, do more.
At seventeen he told B he was moving, leaving everything behind to go to a completely new place. It didn't matter how difficult it would be, he just had to go. He could not erase himself, so he chose to erase his life instead. B did not say anything at the time, and A was too self-absorbed to notice. Later he heard from father that B shortly left, too. In his words: "As soon as you were gone he set fire to everything in your room like a madman. He really is a madman, got that from your mother. There was nothing and no one that kept him in check once you were gone. I was concerned that next time he'll burn down the entire damned house, so I told him to scram. He was gone the next day. Didn't pack anything other than his own self."
By the time A was 27, he was already married for three years and had had their first child. At a banquet one night he met a man who called himself F. They had sex. He really did drink too much that night, to the point that his compulsive conscious mind actually slipped control. Memories poured forth as if freed from a dam, and even he didn't realize he had repressed this much - it was more than enough to crush him. F traced a finger down his spine. "Your body is a piece of work. Have you had men before?"
"No," he lay with his back to him.
"Really? I don't believe you."
"How so?"
"Our kind is usually quite good at identifying others in a crowd. Just like how I found you from next to your wife."
"I'm not like that. I love her."
"You poor thing."
F stepped to the bathroom. A rolled onto his back, covering himself with a thin sheet. The spray of running water across the wall was extraordinarily apparent, as if he had never heard this sound before. Splatter splash the water ran, like how B stuck his thumb into a garden hose when they were eight, droplets drumming against a plastic sheet.
He was reminded of that person.
He and he used to kiss, even greater than this.
Their first real kiss was at that time. B's body was covered in suds, so A sprayed the hose all over him. B took it and sprayed back, and his clothes became thoroughly wet. So B said, "Just strip." Thus they chased each other around the yard, the sun slowly drying moisture off their body. A collapsed under the shade next to the house, and B sneakily followed, his face red from exercise. He ambushed A as he gasped for air, tackling him to the lawn despite protest. A lay unmoving, hushed by the sweet scent of wet earth and grass. He saw dews of sweat precipitate over the blonde peach fuzz of his brother's face, his pupils contracted in the sunlight, his nose wings expanding and deflating in time. B's hands were burning furnaces, while he was cold from evaporation. B felt him and said, "A, you're a block of ice." He pressed his face against his chest, and discovered to his wonderment the presence of that pounding object within his brother, throbbing for escape. B licked a runaway droplet on A's neck, and then backtracked his tongue up its trail to his forehead. Finally, he began licking his mouth, his tongue's dalliance quickly turning into an awkward juvenile kiss, out of curiosity, as if first trying the taste of an unknown fruit.
It was a summer diffused with the green scent of fruit.
A jerked his head. He was surprised by the onslaught of sensory memory from age eight playing in his head, movie-esque. Once slit even a tiny bit, it was like a tender overripe fig, discharging exuberant, bittersweet, milk-white juice.
A liked how B made trouble, liked how he soaked him wet, liked how he licked him as if pulling a prank.
They remained sexually intimate up until age seventeen, up until the first time he heard someone call him a "cocksucking faggot freak".
That night he lay on top of him, B holding his head as he always did while in passion's heat. But this time he pushed him away and lightly whispered, "Don't do that." B stiffened and got up, thinking he wanted to change position. But A refused any further touch or kiss, buttoned up, and moved aside. B looked at him with agonizing vacancy in his eyes, as if asking what he had done wrong.
If he was to rank his worst memories, then this stood undoubtedly at the top of that list.
At that time then A simply could not stop smoking. He did not know how to explain, because even he didn't know what had happened. He had no idea how he and B had come to reach such a point. The difference between them was, B was clearheaded and had always realized, but A was as if stepping out of a delusion for the first time.
A pinched the bridge of his nose. Too much remembrance invariably gave him headaches. He rolled the window open a slit, deeply drawing upon the fresh cold air.
He glanced at the unconscious B, quietly wishing he could turn back to that time. He ought to have told him, everything went wrong because of him - A.
All he had meant to say was to tell him to not be so flirtatious, to tell him to not seduce him so, for he was dangerously arrogant and weak-willed, while he - B - was so very beautiful, ethereal like a fleeing nymph. All he needed was one hint from him, and he would have fallen helplessly in love, dragging his ugly corrupted age-prone death-prone mortal skin sac, hopelessly in love. He wanted him to leave, to get away from him, to find his true love, or to travel free in the world. All of that would suit him better than him, for he was already a beached whale at that age, a last old remnant of an ancient dying tribe. After tasting every right and wrong, all that remained was regret.
Karmic retribution did not come tardy. From that night on, A lost his sleep.
-
"What time is it?"
"You're awake," A jumped.
B pointed toward his window, stretching his body.
"Oh, sorry."
"It's fine," he wiped the fog on his side. "Wanna switch?"
"No need."
"Then at least turn off the headlights."
A noticed only then that it was already light out.
"What were you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Aren't you sleepy at all? What kind of stimulants were you on?" B yawned.
"I can't fall asleep."
"Always been like that?"
"Yeah."
"Wow, that can't be fun."
"We have food in the trunk," A said as he stopped on the shoulder.
B carried back two bags of toast. "Christ! It's fucking freezing out there."
"It must be below freezing."
"Where'd that whiskey go?"
"Somewhere in the back, probably."
B twisted around, explaining "I need that booze to warm me up" as he groped about.
D was probed awake and half-opened his eyes: "What, trying to rape me while I'm asleep?"
"Oh please. Where's the booze? I'm fucking freezing to death."
"You wouldn't be freezing if you had slept with us," he laughed. "Too bad A had to drive, so you had to sleep alone." In the morning sun B saw they were two still-young boys, not much older than when he left home.
-
[Note: This update gave me serious serious trouble like I've never had before, to the point I missed the deadline for yesterday while I edited.
(Possibly heavily because I wasn't into how long the B/D scene stretched - the only hint in this entire piece that smacks of fanservice instead of staying true to a worthy self-standing story. I faded the three paragraphs that I felt were entirely unnecessary, but incorporated them anyway because it's not in my right to edit the original work.)
Unless some major distraction comes up within the next 24 hours, the full story will wrap up tomorrow. Hell to the fucking yes.]
Part 5
Part 2
Part 3
Alternatively, uncensored final draft here.
"Look at those two," B pointed.
"I guess they need a ride." A flashed his headlights.
"Let's do it. They probably won't see a second car on this road tonight."
He slowed and reached a full stop. B switched on the interior light and rolled down his window. The one who approached was a long-haired hippie, blonde with sensuous lips, very friendly. "Hey, can we hitch a ride? Don't want to freeze to death here tonight."
"You got any money?"
He flashed a smile. "As much as you want."
"Get in here," B smiled back. He was attracted to this man's forthright musical voice, and A could tell he was attracted to his other things, too. He knew without looking.
They got in the back. B twisted around to shake the blonde's offered hand. "I'm D, and this here is E."
"B." He motioned with his eyes, "That's A."
"Very nice to meet you guys. I like you car," D answered blithely.
"So where are you headed?" B grinned at A with pride.
"Yorktown, not too far. Keep on this road and we'll be there by morning."
"It's so fucking cold here," B glanced at the silent E, taking in his red hair.
"Yes indeed. We got whiskey though, you want some?" D's fervor added positive heat to the atmosphere within the car.
"Hell yes!"
D pulled out a half-drank flask from his knapsack, took a swig, and offered it to B. Their hands overlapped as he took it, and D did not pull away. Blue eyes met blue eyes. B smiled with an understanding, and passed the flask to A after one swig. The latter thanked him as he took it.
"Where you guys from?" B asked.
"Texas."
"I love that place. Always wanted to meet a real cowboy."
"Go to a rodeo."
"I've seen that on TV once. I liked watching men wearing those hats, sitting on bulls, screaming as they get flung off. If it were me I'd make sure I'm grabbing a bottle with my other hand."
"Haha, you could try." D's laugh was resounding and infectious. The flask was passed back to him.
B fished out his weed, his back now against the glove compartment as he turned to face D. The occasional roadside light bathed his face in alternating light and shadow. His smile exposed flashing teeth, impish and untamed.
He rolled and lit a blunt, took the first hit, and offered to D. "I think you guys will love this."
The latter smiled back as he inhaled, licking his lips. "Very nice."
B stared with undisguised intent, unable to take his eyes off. D's lips were as blossoms raised in whiskey, vulgar yet tender. He kneeled on his seat and reached back, catching D by the chin. The latter opened his mouth, twisting it into a smile. B rubbed his thumb along D's lower lip as he hurriedly took a second hit, pushing the blunt to E. His hands caught the back of B's neck as he bit into his lips.
They had no need for further pleasantries or delays. Perhaps tonight was their only chance, and some people were not finicky about location or time.
E crossed his legs as he smoked, tapping A to pass. A held the blunt in his mouth, and E retracted into a corner to avoid the other two. He pulled his jacket on more tightly and closed his eyes.
B tore at D's hair, his nose digging into his face. Their heavy breathing was quickly masked by the sound of saliva.
D's fingers were rough, his stubble was rough, his every kiss and touch were all rough. He was like weaved hemp, simple, practical, sandy with a hint of assault. B liked this.
D tore at his flannel shirt. B's eyes were closed, his hands dismantling a disarray of blonde hair, his mind succeeded by body. When D's icy finger reached the exposed skin of his chest he shivered, goose bumps rising on cue, but he found D's stroke exceptionally erotic, along with the glossy look in his eyes and the beauty mark upon his neck. He aroused in him the will to fight.
And D did know how to please. B simply held onto his head, giving free reign to D's hands to snake his body like eels. He willfully trapped his moans within his throat, his body fevering to the point of sweat.
He pulled one hand free to recline the passenger seat, his other hand supporting his weight upon D's shoulder. He began kissing him from the neck down as if to weave him new skin using his lips. When he reached his bare shoulder he finally lost balance, tumbling into the back seat. D rolled to make room. But as he approached D's lower abdomen he suddenly stopped, leveling up to meet the other's gaze. B tugged at his collar, touched D with his nose, and clambered back into the passenger seat.
Perhaps they stopped out of the same consideration.
B straightened his clothes and fixed his belt, feeling the irrepressible heat of just moments ago steadily subside. Replacing it was a heavy and mysterious affection, an age-old and familiar fondness, so ancient that it no longer held any color of desire and was instead a calling, a buried remembrance.
D leaned against the door, watching E. E's eyes were open, watching him back.
"Do you mind if we do it in the back?" D asked.
"No," A slurred, the blunt still in his mouth. Both his hands were on the wheel, his eyes staring meticulously dead ahead. Smoke slowly trailed from between his lips.
B felt a deep hunger clawing out from within his heart, striking him with hallucinogenic effect. Bit by bit he could no longer sense D's mingled breathing in the back or notice the car engine's lull, as if everything faded to oil stranded upon water, gorgeous in granules. Keenly-edged but blunt, scorching yet frigid, exhilaration in exhaustion, passion in despair, dry ice in flames. And A, his brother, sitting a mere arm's length away by his side, emanated an irresistible seduction through his impassive indifference, his monumental nonchalance. His tenderly amorous eyelids just so had to frame cruel pitiless eyes, his thin nose bridge chiseled toward thin nose alae, his lips closed wordless yet still asserting fervor. His delicate features held no aggression in despite of their knife-like frost. B studied him, poring. This is the face of my brother. An archaic castle braving the storm alone upon a cliff, persevering yet in precarious water. He felt parched as he stared, writhing in his seat, his right hand reaching for the blunt.
"You said you wouldn't smoke any more, I remember."
"Mh." His answer again came as a slur.
"Therefore..."
B caught it between index and middle finger, slowly withdrawing the burnt roll from A's mouth. His thumb put out the spark without his hand ever leaving his lip, his index finger lingering. He slid along the line of A's closed mouth, shutting his eyes to maximize sensation. He felt the gentle movement of A's lips against his fingertip in a snail-like dance, moist, unhurried, miniscule. Cautiously he kissed his finger, his lower lip stirring again and again.
A unthinkingly tightened his grasp on the steering wheel as he tentatively brought his tongue to B's finger. Tobacco, bitter salt, and a spiciness that tasted like a long-missed prelude to love. His next kisses came faster, stronger, aggressive with a tinge of almost impatience. B inched his hand closer, guiding A's lips down the base of his finger toward his palm, along his life line toward his wrist.
A felt an inner convulsion gradually take over his conscious mind, his open lips composing love upon B's wrist, his mouth liquid, his eyes mist. B's taste had always been his one Achilles' heel, more dangerous than any drug. He was lost in defeat without even yet touching him.
He hit the brakes abruptly, skidding the car to a stop.
D, crudely flung over in the back while in the middle of passion, vehemently cursed: "Shit! The fuck's wrong with you!"
But when he saw B hastily pulling back his hand, right away he laughed. "We can do this together."
B turned his head aside. "I'm gonna sleep."
A restarted the car.
-
Alternating light snores filled the ambience within the car. A switched the radio station, turning the volume low. No talk shows were on through the night, and music was soothingly hypnotic. A female jazz singer's voice was hoarse. A stared at the stretch of road ahead outlined by his headlights, ever-so-slightly starting to wonder whether taking this trip was an irresponsibly impulsive move.
When he was seventeen he decided to leave home. There were numerous reasons that drove him into leaving, but he did not enjoy recalling any one of them. He was often thankful that he was able to start over in a new place where no one knew him; no familiar faces, no rolling recollections. If he could stave off having to remember, then even powerful memories could eventually fade in time. He did not remember much about father. Even if he was bad-tempered and prone to occasional abuse, most of the time it was B who braved the belt or stick, while he stood quietly to the side. He thought pain was perhaps the bond between B and father, still a stronger link than what he had with the man. He was never scared of him; he pitied him instead. A man of such caliber and strength succumbing to age, while he himself grew only stronger with time.
Father never spoke much about mother. A felt he didn't hate her, but she made him morose. For a rugged man like his father, open discussion on feelings was not a manly dignified thing to do. One of the only things A learned from him was to talk less, do more.
At seventeen he told B he was moving, leaving everything behind to go to a completely new place. It didn't matter how difficult it would be, he just had to go. He could not erase himself, so he chose to erase his life instead. B did not say anything at the time, and A was too self-absorbed to notice. Later he heard from father that B shortly left, too. In his words: "As soon as you were gone he set fire to everything in your room like a madman. He really is a madman, got that from your mother. There was nothing and no one that kept him in check once you were gone. I was concerned that next time he'll burn down the entire damned house, so I told him to scram. He was gone the next day. Didn't pack anything other than his own self."
By the time A was 27, he was already married for three years and had had their first child. At a banquet one night he met a man who called himself F. They had sex. He really did drink too much that night, to the point that his compulsive conscious mind actually slipped control. Memories poured forth as if freed from a dam, and even he didn't realize he had repressed this much - it was more than enough to crush him. F traced a finger down his spine. "Your body is a piece of work. Have you had men before?"
"No," he lay with his back to him.
"Really? I don't believe you."
"How so?"
"Our kind is usually quite good at identifying others in a crowd. Just like how I found you from next to your wife."
"I'm not like that. I love her."
"You poor thing."
F stepped to the bathroom. A rolled onto his back, covering himself with a thin sheet. The spray of running water across the wall was extraordinarily apparent, as if he had never heard this sound before. Splatter splash the water ran, like how B stuck his thumb into a garden hose when they were eight, droplets drumming against a plastic sheet.
He was reminded of that person.
He and he used to kiss, even greater than this.
Their first real kiss was at that time. B's body was covered in suds, so A sprayed the hose all over him. B took it and sprayed back, and his clothes became thoroughly wet. So B said, "Just strip." Thus they chased each other around the yard, the sun slowly drying moisture off their body. A collapsed under the shade next to the house, and B sneakily followed, his face red from exercise. He ambushed A as he gasped for air, tackling him to the lawn despite protest. A lay unmoving, hushed by the sweet scent of wet earth and grass. He saw dews of sweat precipitate over the blonde peach fuzz of his brother's face, his pupils contracted in the sunlight, his nose wings expanding and deflating in time. B's hands were burning furnaces, while he was cold from evaporation. B felt him and said, "A, you're a block of ice." He pressed his face against his chest, and discovered to his wonderment the presence of that pounding object within his brother, throbbing for escape. B licked a runaway droplet on A's neck, and then backtracked his tongue up its trail to his forehead. Finally, he began licking his mouth, his tongue's dalliance quickly turning into an awkward juvenile kiss, out of curiosity, as if first trying the taste of an unknown fruit.
It was a summer diffused with the green scent of fruit.
A jerked his head. He was surprised by the onslaught of sensory memory from age eight playing in his head, movie-esque. Once slit even a tiny bit, it was like a tender overripe fig, discharging exuberant, bittersweet, milk-white juice.
A liked how B made trouble, liked how he soaked him wet, liked how he licked him as if pulling a prank.
They remained sexually intimate up until age seventeen, up until the first time he heard someone call him a "cocksucking faggot freak".
That night he lay on top of him, B holding his head as he always did while in passion's heat. But this time he pushed him away and lightly whispered, "Don't do that." B stiffened and got up, thinking he wanted to change position. But A refused any further touch or kiss, buttoned up, and moved aside. B looked at him with agonizing vacancy in his eyes, as if asking what he had done wrong.
If he was to rank his worst memories, then this stood undoubtedly at the top of that list.
At that time then A simply could not stop smoking. He did not know how to explain, because even he didn't know what had happened. He had no idea how he and B had come to reach such a point. The difference between them was, B was clearheaded and had always realized, but A was as if stepping out of a delusion for the first time.
A pinched the bridge of his nose. Too much remembrance invariably gave him headaches. He rolled the window open a slit, deeply drawing upon the fresh cold air.
He glanced at the unconscious B, quietly wishing he could turn back to that time. He ought to have told him, everything went wrong because of him - A.
All he had meant to say was to tell him to not be so flirtatious, to tell him to not seduce him so, for he was dangerously arrogant and weak-willed, while he - B - was so very beautiful, ethereal like a fleeing nymph. All he needed was one hint from him, and he would have fallen helplessly in love, dragging his ugly corrupted age-prone death-prone mortal skin sac, hopelessly in love. He wanted him to leave, to get away from him, to find his true love, or to travel free in the world. All of that would suit him better than him, for he was already a beached whale at that age, a last old remnant of an ancient dying tribe. After tasting every right and wrong, all that remained was regret.
Karmic retribution did not come tardy. From that night on, A lost his sleep.
-
"What time is it?"
"You're awake," A jumped.
B pointed toward his window, stretching his body.
"Oh, sorry."
"It's fine," he wiped the fog on his side. "Wanna switch?"
"No need."
"Then at least turn off the headlights."
A noticed only then that it was already light out.
"What were you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Aren't you sleepy at all? What kind of stimulants were you on?" B yawned.
"I can't fall asleep."
"Always been like that?"
"Yeah."
"Wow, that can't be fun."
"We have food in the trunk," A said as he stopped on the shoulder.
B carried back two bags of toast. "Christ! It's fucking freezing out there."
"It must be below freezing."
"Where'd that whiskey go?"
"Somewhere in the back, probably."
B twisted around, explaining "I need that booze to warm me up" as he groped about.
D was probed awake and half-opened his eyes: "What, trying to rape me while I'm asleep?"
"Oh please. Where's the booze? I'm fucking freezing to death."
"You wouldn't be freezing if you had slept with us," he laughed. "Too bad A had to drive, so you had to sleep alone." In the morning sun B saw they were two still-young boys, not much older than when he left home.
-
[Note: This update gave me serious serious trouble like I've never had before, to the point I missed the deadline for yesterday while I edited.
(Possibly heavily because I wasn't into how long the B/D scene stretched - the only hint in this entire piece that smacks of fanservice instead of staying true to a worthy self-standing story. I faded the three paragraphs that I felt were entirely unnecessary, but incorporated them anyway because it's not in my right to edit the original work.)
Unless some major distraction comes up within the next 24 hours, the full story will wrap up tomorrow. Hell to the fucking yes.]
Part 5
Thursday, February 21, 2013
052. Making up
Tonight, mother returns. I have to pick her up at midnight. Debating whether I can risk a nap until then.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
051. Caught in translation, part 3
Part 1
Part 2
Alternatively, uncensored final draft here.
A switched off the bedside lamp and kicked back, hands behind head. It had been numerous years since peaceful slumber had forsaken him. Sleep was luxury, sleep yielded secret passageway to memory, sleep was the godsend elixir meant to negate troubles from the day - but it was not a resource he could tap into. Each night he napped for four dreamless hours, from 2 to 6 AM, and would wake up positively energized. He could pull two all-nighters in a row and still only needed four hours to fully recharge. Rather than calling insomnia, he thought he could no longer be spent.
He had tried psychotherapy with his psychiatrist. It seemed he had an abnormally compulsive conscious mind, to the point that his subconscious could not freely surface even when he was asleep. A spent a fortune seeking remedy, but the most he had ever gotten was a sleeping pill that yielded stone-cold coma, still without dreams. He was left with time. Perhaps, at the expense of dreaming, he felt he ought to use that time to invest in his future.
But reality could not be this simple, and he never believed those nightly extra hours were yielded to him for free. He felt he was the embodiment of the picture of Dorian Gray, that some unseen part of him was secretly bearing all the ugly weight of exhaustion and abuse that the rest of him was seemingly spared. This could be his spine, his heart, his stomach, his skin - he obsessively passed them all through radioactive scan. Report after report came back desirously clean, but that was meaningless to him. He feared that if he could not pinpoint - much less protect - this one spot, this central pillar that bore the weight of his existence, then one day, if it were to snap without warning, he could be driven to raising a gun to the head, or succumbing to schizophrenia.
But for now, things were still under control.
Even lying here, in a silence through which he could hear his own blood flow, A was keenly conscious of time. Time, stretched like Egyptian cotton over a mummy, like hair on a woman who let it grow uncut for her entire life, like muddy tides of the Mississippi in late summer, a journey sans destination. When young, his father once took them on a far trip. They hitchhiked on a truck full of rubber tires and came across the Mississippi, old old Mississippi. A remembered that father had said, People called her the Mother River. He noted that although she wasn't as wide as he had imagined, she ran much, much longer than what he thought. The truck rumbled onward for a very long time, but still she ceaselessly pointed into the far distance. Thus, to him, three things came to share a common concept: mother, river, and time.
You could easily traverse a river, but don't think you can ever translate its flow lengthwise.
A closed his eyes. His watch ticked like water, his damp shoes slowly floating up. Water rose to meet the edge of his bed, and then stopped. She did not mean to drown him; she only wished to isolate him. She loved him, but she rendered him alone.
A weight suddenly dropped onto his body, and he awoke with a start to see B sprawled on top of him.
"Still awake?" B whispered.
"Mhh," he answered with an ambiguous groan.
"Can't fall asleep?"
"It's been like this."
"Aren't you full of energy."
A smiled helplessly, squinting with effort but could not make out B's face.
He plunged and met A's neck with his teeth, rhythmically stimulating his skin using his tongue.
"Don't do that."
"Why? Don't tell me you don't want it."
"I don't want it."
"You don't want it!" B seized him by the shoulders, growling into his ear. "Then why did you come! Why did you agree to whatever I asked! You clearly know what I want!" His voice was hoarse, and A's ear rang.
"B." He tried pushing him off, but his arms were numb from prolonged cramping under his head.
"Alright. Alright. We'll fix that insomnia." B reached a hand to turn on the bed lamp, studying A's face. He retrieved a cigarette from the nightstand and stuck it between A's lips."Hold this for me," he said as he brought a flame close.
He pulled the lit cigarette from A's mouth, inhaled through, and promptly met A's lips. Tenderly he parted them, working his clenched teeth open with his tongue. A put up no resistance, so smoke and tongue entered his mouth, gentle like a dove amongst clouds. A closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion wash upon him in one wave, threatening to flood his solitary island. But this water was not the icy cold he had anticipated. Instead she was warm, mild like his body's warmth.
A was at last reunited with sleep.
-
He awoke dizzy the following late afternoon, alarming himself when he saw the time. He had lost track of how many years it had been that his watch had consistently told him, upon waking, that sunrise was yet hours away. This time, it was the evening sun that greeted his heavy lids.
B was nowhere in the room. He grabbed his coat and dashed out the door, and, expectedly, the car was gone. He touched his pocket. The wallet was still there, but cash had vanished. He sank back on the bed, annoyance bubbling. This feeling was so familiar that he remembered at once the hint from the neon light the night before.
On a snowy Christmas when they were ten, B stole his hidden allowance money and disappeared without even a secret note. Father refused to believe that he knew nothing, dragged him to the living room, and beat his back with a broom. A did not recall pain, nor did he resent father even in memory. He only registered the blinking Christmas lights over the window which he and B had hung up together, and the sight of white billowy snow. Three days later B returned as if nothing had happened.
How long was three days? Two nights of sleep, three times breakfast. Not enough to finish a show, and not enough for even dinner leftovers to go bad. A couldn't understand why, in memory, the separation from B that time had felt so long - longer even than the past sixteen years. The following morning he sat waiting on the bench outside the lighted window, his eyes sweeping across white fields and white roads. They lived in the far countryside where few cars passed. He turned on the blinking lights when it became dark, thinking he must have fallen into the Mississippi because father had once said, River water is cold. It can freeze you to death.
On the third day, B walked home. His foot sank with every other step in the snow, his coloring unobtrusive against the surrounding white. His progress was slow as a crawling ant, but A spotted him right away. He wasn't excited, surprised, or moved to tears. He felt he should have been worried to the point of going out in search. B saw him too and picked up into a run, all the way to him, his clothes and hair laced with ice. He felt bubbling annoyance as B smiled at him, and his clenched fist flew into his face. B wobbled backwards, and A struck him again. He fell to the ground, panting as he threw down his backpack. "Look what I brought back for you," he said in high notes.
-
Without a warning B kicked open the door, and A jumped. He handed him a cup of coffee and a warm hamburger, stripping out of the army jacket. In his usual half-taunting tone he said: "I thought you'd be up at least by checkout time."
A couldn't speak.
"Had a good dream? Any big-tittied hot babes?"
A ran a hand over his stubble. "I dreamt my toes were soaked rotten by water."
B shrugged. "You must love horror movies."
"Where did you go?"
"There's a town close by. I went to explore since you weren't up. Oh, and I took some of your money, I'll get you back later. Who knew, my luck has been terrible since you came. Looks like we'll have to drive through the night."
"How much is left?"
"Twenty bucks. But we'll be golden if we stay out of motels and avoid the tolls. We can take turns driving and still make it there the day after tomorrow." He took the map, planning enthusiastically.
He was born unable to worry.
A got dressed, cleaned up his face, and prepared to go.
-
He proposed that he drives the first shift, and B did not protest.
B switched on the radio with near full volume. A reporter described yet another serial murder case, not unusual for their time. "What a career," B commented.
A reached a hand over to the volume knob, but B waved him away. He asked, "Don't you mind how loud this is?"
He shrugged and turned it off altogether. "You know that my ear's gone bad, A."
He hesitated. "I do remember, but it wasn't as bad as this."
That was another story from their childhood.
B laughed. "Everything worsens with time. But still it could be worse yet, so if you want to say something, better tell my left side. Or just be loud, or at least have me see you. Otherwise all I hear is a whisper in the wind, or terrible radio static." He twisted to fold up one leg. "But I'm still sensitive to your voice. I can filter out background frequencies any time to catch the enemy signal."
"I remember you were doing a band."
"You always remember outdated stuff."
"I couldn't get in touch with you."
"You never even tried. But it's okay, I'm not mad."
"I remember seeing you and your band in the paper once. I bought your record."
"I'm touched, but really, I don't do that anymore. My ear's bad, my throat's bad, it wasn't a gig I could keep at. But that wasn't the real reason, of course. When you don't want something anymore, any excuse becomes a legit reason."
"What happened to your throat?"
"Your concern really doesn't come by easy." He pulled out a cigarette and rolled down the window a slit. A shivered as the cold gushed in.
"If you smoked less, you probably could have sung for some more years."
"If your ear's bad, you counter by turning the music up, and then you have to talk even louder over the music. No matter how you yell, you still can't hear, so the ear gets worse and the throat gets worse. What do they call this, a vicious cycle? More like karma."
"You should have taken a break," he looked at B. The latter stared straight ahead, an empty smile crawling across his face. "It's okay, never mind. I can still hold conversation with you, so what does it matter if I can't hear? Too much damned noise in the world anyway, and most people you don't even need to talk to. Like C, the guy you saw at my place. Even though he had a loud mouth, I never really heard a thing he said. We had no need to talk." B chuckled to himself again.
"But I like the way you trash-talk."
"Let's talk about you. I want to know how you got divorced. I get fired up just thinking about it."
A did not answer.
Night always fell sooner on overcast days. Wind blew through tall grass on either side, forming waves along the road. Dark clouds overhead felt stiflingly low.
B did not insist for a reply. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.
A turned the radio back on, switching to a music station. Silence forever bore a weight he couldn't stand.
He didn't know since when he had begun to fear being in B's company. At the same time he had also always yearned to be by his side, and thus did not know what to do. B had always been B. His devil-may-care attitude and cynicism were not born from animosity for the world, but instead stemmed from an urgent desire for life, vitality, sexuality. Even more so than A, he had had a natural sensitivity for sensation. Most troubling was his hatred for himself. Like a pupa he lay, cocooned in his own emptiness. Even in childhood, everything he did pointed to his inner self abandon. Life was dispensable to him, no loss.
"You got kids?" B did not open his eyes, tapping his hands to the music's beat.
"Yes, two. Age six and four."
"You got to work fast!
"A. All the strangest occurrences in the world together couldn't offset me as much as the news that you got married. You don't like women at all."
"You know, after you walk down the road of life for a while, suddenly you just want someone to walk with you. Otherwise what's ahead feels like too much, and you don't think you can make it to the end alone."
A thought it must be the slow music playing at nighttime - or the dry and warm air circulating a closed space - that filled his head with strange ideas. He saw himself as a slit-stomached fish lying on a bank, the occasional river splash wetting his dorsal fin. He might be on the verge of death, but he had never before felt an exhilaration such as this, as air flooding his gills. He hungered for someone to open him up, to spill him.
"You know that's not a thought you, or I, would ever have."
"People change as they grow old."
"You still wouldn't."
"I tried visiting her and the kids, a few times. I couldn't even look at them. I hid behind a corner, watching them cross a street. With them I always see the shining figure of a righteous person, a figure I wish I could stand up to become, a figure who can live and reap all of life's proudest achievements. But in the end, all I can do is hide in a corner, and watch from afar as that hope incinerates to dust."
"Looks like you need a person you can tell everything to."
"Perhaps. But I still didn't want to see you."
"Rare that you're this frank."
"You always make me think back to my teens, always reminding me of how powerless I am against time."
"I thought we made a bunch of excellent memories. They say the advantage of twins is you can save the trouble of mirrors. But hey, I have people lining up all over who want to sleep with me, I can't possibly look that old."
"No. Maybe you don't know how it's like being the older kid. To me, you'll always be like twelve or thirteen, especially since all these years we were apart. The person I see aging in the mirror is only me; your image is forever locked with details untouchable by time. This doesn't change even if we are face to face now."
"The way you put it makes me want to barf, but I feel right now is a very appropriate cue for us to commence bawling all over each other's shoulder."
"Not bad."
Part 4
Part 5
Part 2
Alternatively, uncensored final draft here.
A switched off the bedside lamp and kicked back, hands behind head. It had been numerous years since peaceful slumber had forsaken him. Sleep was luxury, sleep yielded secret passageway to memory, sleep was the godsend elixir meant to negate troubles from the day - but it was not a resource he could tap into. Each night he napped for four dreamless hours, from 2 to 6 AM, and would wake up positively energized. He could pull two all-nighters in a row and still only needed four hours to fully recharge. Rather than calling insomnia, he thought he could no longer be spent.
He had tried psychotherapy with his psychiatrist. It seemed he had an abnormally compulsive conscious mind, to the point that his subconscious could not freely surface even when he was asleep. A spent a fortune seeking remedy, but the most he had ever gotten was a sleeping pill that yielded stone-cold coma, still without dreams. He was left with time. Perhaps, at the expense of dreaming, he felt he ought to use that time to invest in his future.
But reality could not be this simple, and he never believed those nightly extra hours were yielded to him for free. He felt he was the embodiment of the picture of Dorian Gray, that some unseen part of him was secretly bearing all the ugly weight of exhaustion and abuse that the rest of him was seemingly spared. This could be his spine, his heart, his stomach, his skin - he obsessively passed them all through radioactive scan. Report after report came back desirously clean, but that was meaningless to him. He feared that if he could not pinpoint - much less protect - this one spot, this central pillar that bore the weight of his existence, then one day, if it were to snap without warning, he could be driven to raising a gun to the head, or succumbing to schizophrenia.
But for now, things were still under control.
Even lying here, in a silence through which he could hear his own blood flow, A was keenly conscious of time. Time, stretched like Egyptian cotton over a mummy, like hair on a woman who let it grow uncut for her entire life, like muddy tides of the Mississippi in late summer, a journey sans destination. When young, his father once took them on a far trip. They hitchhiked on a truck full of rubber tires and came across the Mississippi, old old Mississippi. A remembered that father had said, People called her the Mother River. He noted that although she wasn't as wide as he had imagined, she ran much, much longer than what he thought. The truck rumbled onward for a very long time, but still she ceaselessly pointed into the far distance. Thus, to him, three things came to share a common concept: mother, river, and time.
You could easily traverse a river, but don't think you can ever translate its flow lengthwise.
A closed his eyes. His watch ticked like water, his damp shoes slowly floating up. Water rose to meet the edge of his bed, and then stopped. She did not mean to drown him; she only wished to isolate him. She loved him, but she rendered him alone.
A weight suddenly dropped onto his body, and he awoke with a start to see B sprawled on top of him.
"Still awake?" B whispered.
"Mhh," he answered with an ambiguous groan.
"Can't fall asleep?"
"It's been like this."
"Aren't you full of energy."
A smiled helplessly, squinting with effort but could not make out B's face.
He plunged and met A's neck with his teeth, rhythmically stimulating his skin using his tongue.
"Don't do that."
"Why? Don't tell me you don't want it."
"I don't want it."
"You don't want it!" B seized him by the shoulders, growling into his ear. "Then why did you come! Why did you agree to whatever I asked! You clearly know what I want!" His voice was hoarse, and A's ear rang.
"B." He tried pushing him off, but his arms were numb from prolonged cramping under his head.
"Alright. Alright. We'll fix that insomnia." B reached a hand to turn on the bed lamp, studying A's face. He retrieved a cigarette from the nightstand and stuck it between A's lips."Hold this for me," he said as he brought a flame close.
He pulled the lit cigarette from A's mouth, inhaled through, and promptly met A's lips. Tenderly he parted them, working his clenched teeth open with his tongue. A put up no resistance, so smoke and tongue entered his mouth, gentle like a dove amongst clouds. A closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion wash upon him in one wave, threatening to flood his solitary island. But this water was not the icy cold he had anticipated. Instead she was warm, mild like his body's warmth.
A was at last reunited with sleep.
-
He awoke dizzy the following late afternoon, alarming himself when he saw the time. He had lost track of how many years it had been that his watch had consistently told him, upon waking, that sunrise was yet hours away. This time, it was the evening sun that greeted his heavy lids.
B was nowhere in the room. He grabbed his coat and dashed out the door, and, expectedly, the car was gone. He touched his pocket. The wallet was still there, but cash had vanished. He sank back on the bed, annoyance bubbling. This feeling was so familiar that he remembered at once the hint from the neon light the night before.
On a snowy Christmas when they were ten, B stole his hidden allowance money and disappeared without even a secret note. Father refused to believe that he knew nothing, dragged him to the living room, and beat his back with a broom. A did not recall pain, nor did he resent father even in memory. He only registered the blinking Christmas lights over the window which he and B had hung up together, and the sight of white billowy snow. Three days later B returned as if nothing had happened.
How long was three days? Two nights of sleep, three times breakfast. Not enough to finish a show, and not enough for even dinner leftovers to go bad. A couldn't understand why, in memory, the separation from B that time had felt so long - longer even than the past sixteen years. The following morning he sat waiting on the bench outside the lighted window, his eyes sweeping across white fields and white roads. They lived in the far countryside where few cars passed. He turned on the blinking lights when it became dark, thinking he must have fallen into the Mississippi because father had once said, River water is cold. It can freeze you to death.
On the third day, B walked home. His foot sank with every other step in the snow, his coloring unobtrusive against the surrounding white. His progress was slow as a crawling ant, but A spotted him right away. He wasn't excited, surprised, or moved to tears. He felt he should have been worried to the point of going out in search. B saw him too and picked up into a run, all the way to him, his clothes and hair laced with ice. He felt bubbling annoyance as B smiled at him, and his clenched fist flew into his face. B wobbled backwards, and A struck him again. He fell to the ground, panting as he threw down his backpack. "Look what I brought back for you," he said in high notes.
-
Without a warning B kicked open the door, and A jumped. He handed him a cup of coffee and a warm hamburger, stripping out of the army jacket. In his usual half-taunting tone he said: "I thought you'd be up at least by checkout time."
A couldn't speak.
"Had a good dream? Any big-tittied hot babes?"
A ran a hand over his stubble. "I dreamt my toes were soaked rotten by water."
B shrugged. "You must love horror movies."
"Where did you go?"
"There's a town close by. I went to explore since you weren't up. Oh, and I took some of your money, I'll get you back later. Who knew, my luck has been terrible since you came. Looks like we'll have to drive through the night."
"How much is left?"
"Twenty bucks. But we'll be golden if we stay out of motels and avoid the tolls. We can take turns driving and still make it there the day after tomorrow." He took the map, planning enthusiastically.
He was born unable to worry.
A got dressed, cleaned up his face, and prepared to go.
-
He proposed that he drives the first shift, and B did not protest.
B switched on the radio with near full volume. A reporter described yet another serial murder case, not unusual for their time. "What a career," B commented.
A reached a hand over to the volume knob, but B waved him away. He asked, "Don't you mind how loud this is?"
He shrugged and turned it off altogether. "You know that my ear's gone bad, A."
He hesitated. "I do remember, but it wasn't as bad as this."
That was another story from their childhood.
B laughed. "Everything worsens with time. But still it could be worse yet, so if you want to say something, better tell my left side. Or just be loud, or at least have me see you. Otherwise all I hear is a whisper in the wind, or terrible radio static." He twisted to fold up one leg. "But I'm still sensitive to your voice. I can filter out background frequencies any time to catch the enemy signal."
"I remember you were doing a band."
"You always remember outdated stuff."
"I couldn't get in touch with you."
"You never even tried. But it's okay, I'm not mad."
"I remember seeing you and your band in the paper once. I bought your record."
"I'm touched, but really, I don't do that anymore. My ear's bad, my throat's bad, it wasn't a gig I could keep at. But that wasn't the real reason, of course. When you don't want something anymore, any excuse becomes a legit reason."
"What happened to your throat?"
"Your concern really doesn't come by easy." He pulled out a cigarette and rolled down the window a slit. A shivered as the cold gushed in.
"If you smoked less, you probably could have sung for some more years."
"If your ear's bad, you counter by turning the music up, and then you have to talk even louder over the music. No matter how you yell, you still can't hear, so the ear gets worse and the throat gets worse. What do they call this, a vicious cycle? More like karma."
"You should have taken a break," he looked at B. The latter stared straight ahead, an empty smile crawling across his face. "It's okay, never mind. I can still hold conversation with you, so what does it matter if I can't hear? Too much damned noise in the world anyway, and most people you don't even need to talk to. Like C, the guy you saw at my place. Even though he had a loud mouth, I never really heard a thing he said. We had no need to talk." B chuckled to himself again.
"But I like the way you trash-talk."
"Let's talk about you. I want to know how you got divorced. I get fired up just thinking about it."
A did not answer.
Night always fell sooner on overcast days. Wind blew through tall grass on either side, forming waves along the road. Dark clouds overhead felt stiflingly low.
B did not insist for a reply. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.
A turned the radio back on, switching to a music station. Silence forever bore a weight he couldn't stand.
He didn't know since when he had begun to fear being in B's company. At the same time he had also always yearned to be by his side, and thus did not know what to do. B had always been B. His devil-may-care attitude and cynicism were not born from animosity for the world, but instead stemmed from an urgent desire for life, vitality, sexuality. Even more so than A, he had had a natural sensitivity for sensation. Most troubling was his hatred for himself. Like a pupa he lay, cocooned in his own emptiness. Even in childhood, everything he did pointed to his inner self abandon. Life was dispensable to him, no loss.
"You got kids?" B did not open his eyes, tapping his hands to the music's beat.
"Yes, two. Age six and four."
"You got to work fast!
"A. All the strangest occurrences in the world together couldn't offset me as much as the news that you got married. You don't like women at all."
"You know, after you walk down the road of life for a while, suddenly you just want someone to walk with you. Otherwise what's ahead feels like too much, and you don't think you can make it to the end alone."
A thought it must be the slow music playing at nighttime - or the dry and warm air circulating a closed space - that filled his head with strange ideas. He saw himself as a slit-stomached fish lying on a bank, the occasional river splash wetting his dorsal fin. He might be on the verge of death, but he had never before felt an exhilaration such as this, as air flooding his gills. He hungered for someone to open him up, to spill him.
"You know that's not a thought you, or I, would ever have."
"People change as they grow old."
"You still wouldn't."
"I tried visiting her and the kids, a few times. I couldn't even look at them. I hid behind a corner, watching them cross a street. With them I always see the shining figure of a righteous person, a figure I wish I could stand up to become, a figure who can live and reap all of life's proudest achievements. But in the end, all I can do is hide in a corner, and watch from afar as that hope incinerates to dust."
"Looks like you need a person you can tell everything to."
"Perhaps. But I still didn't want to see you."
"Rare that you're this frank."
"You always make me think back to my teens, always reminding me of how powerless I am against time."
"I thought we made a bunch of excellent memories. They say the advantage of twins is you can save the trouble of mirrors. But hey, I have people lining up all over who want to sleep with me, I can't possibly look that old."
"No. Maybe you don't know how it's like being the older kid. To me, you'll always be like twelve or thirteen, especially since all these years we were apart. The person I see aging in the mirror is only me; your image is forever locked with details untouchable by time. This doesn't change even if we are face to face now."
"The way you put it makes me want to barf, but I feel right now is a very appropriate cue for us to commence bawling all over each other's shoulder."
"Not bad."
Part 4
Part 5
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
050. Fuel
Monday, February 18, 2013
049. Caught in translation, part 2
Part 1
Alternatively: uncensored final draft here.
Early morning, 6 AM.
Dark night precipitated a blanket of white, sheet-like moisture. Water could be squeezed out of air.
B stamped his feet with his hands deep in his pockets, his nose red from the cold. His face was pale to the point of tinting blue.
A said, "I think the first order of business should be getting you proper clothes." Walking over, he handed B one of two steaming cups of coffee.
"This weather could kill. No wind, no rain, no snow, suddenly no leaves on the trees either, and the river frozen over. Air's suffocating."
"Where is the car?" A asked, quietly considering whether to offer B his own clothes. But as soon as the thought formed, even he felt he should laugh at himself.
"Not far up ahead. Past this block there's a used car lot."
Not many people were in the streets, and even pigeons seemed reluctant to coo at this time on a winter's morning. A bought hotdogs from a stand, taking comfort from the brief heat.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, B digging his face in. A kept his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes squinting ahead. The first rays of daylight seeped between buildings onto the street like obscure fresh hope.
"There it is," B ran ahead.
A subconsciously smiled at his back, picking up speed as well.
Like all used car lots, this one, too, was packed with mixed brands of all types. The boss was likely still sleeping in; only a blanket-bundled teenage boy crouched in a corner chair.
"Which one?" A asked, eyeing the approaching boy.
"Looking for a car, mister?" The boy's attitude was lukewarm.
"Right here," B pointed to a white '67 Chevy Impala.
"How much?" A asked.
"Eight grand, limited edition modified, ready to go," was the boy's apathetic answer.
"Do you take checks?"
"I'll have to check up with Boss for that." The boy hobbled toward the white shack in the far back.
A nodded. B was leaning against the car, waving him over. A stepped closer and leaned down for inspection.
"Isn't it a beauty?"
"It's not exactly cheap."
"Oh come on. Just imagine us, driving all the way to Denver."
A straightened and settled next to B, sighing, "Like two desperate bandits."
"Don't give me that. Just look at it like I'm borrowing from you. I can earn it back all in one night if I'm lucky." His eyes shone as he looked at A, as if abruptly having regained sobriety, or as if a pet heard its owner's return from the rattling of a door handle. "But I do enjoy your metaphor." His laugh was guiltless; dismantling A always amused him like nothing else could.
The boss was a beefy man, wobbling toward them in a leather overcoat pulled over pajamas. His face was frozen red, and he was not thrilled to be pulled up this early. "So you finally gonna buy. But you do this to me again at this hour next time and I ain't selling." He barked at B, full of air, and eyeballed A. "Looks like you found a moneybag."
"Oh yeah. I found a private bank," B grinned as he signed the contract.
"Congratulations, you may now travel across the world in this baby." He handed the keys to A, casting a long and meaningful look that made the latter uncomfortable. A escaped by dodging into the driver's seat.
B hopped in the passenger side, let out a long sigh, and drummed the glove compartment in satisfaction. He ardently turned to A: "I don't think you're as bad anymore."
A twitched a lip. "Settle down."
"To Denver!"
-
B awoke with his teeth chattering. Peeping out the window showed they were on some interstate.
"How long have I slept?" He straightened, noticing A's coat covering him like a blanket.
"Mh," A checked his watch. "It's almost three now, so probably eight hours."
"Wanna switch?"
"No, I'm good."
"Don't tell me the heater's broken," B ran his hand over a vent. "Fuck."
Winter, Tropic of Capricorn, short days, long nights.
B put up his feet against the windshield, pressing his forehead against the misted passenger window as he gazed out.
A threw a map at him. "Check where we are. I'm not familiar with these parts."
"Looks like rain." B pulled out a blunt, took a drag, and offered it to A's lip. The latter twisted his head away and B laughed, dragging a finger across A's neck as he retracted. "You should, just so you don't fall asleep and kill us both."
"A, look outside. You really should take a good fucking look outside. You never would seriously look, it's like you're fucking scared. Scared shitless that if you ever do look closely enough, you'll see or realize something that'll kill you. But some things you should still see whether you live or die.
"When I walked out the door yesterday, a leaf landed squarely on my head. My favorite black pepper sauce sold out, so I bought cigs at the supermarket instead. They had a lottery thing going on and I hit the jack for three grand. I put the claim ticket in my pants pocket, stocked up on more cigs and weed, and then ran into my ex. Said he wanted to fuck. There was a dead dog frozen outside my building, it looked so peaceful. When I unlocked the door, for some reason I thought of you.
"Of course he later took my pants, my money, and my cigs, though he didn't touch the weed. But I'm not bereft, because, as I told him, I'm leaving, I'm going away, in my Impala, with that person standing at the door.
"It is raining now, never mind all that sunshine this morning. You tell me whether that's a good omen or bad.
"New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, I-90, straight on. AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Survivor, Warrant, Kansas, all the way west. Thunderstorm, lightning, hail, heaven, hell.
"I'm gonna tune in, A. Holler when we're in Denver."
A turned on the headlights as evening sky drained through the windshield. Gray road met gray sky at vision's edge; dry grass blew.
White Impala along I-90, little brother in tow. He would take them home to a dead father, to bury him home.
Everything tasted surreal, as none of this belonged in his regular life. But strangely, all of this reignited in him an agitation he hadn't felt in too long. Like a youth first opening the door to adventure.
-
A pulled up to a motel and shook B awake. The effect of marijuana had long since expired, and he was in a sluggish daze.
"Out," he had to explain, "We're staying here tonight."
B got in the shower. A stepped out alone, feeling the night breeze. No stars tonight.
He paused at the door, watching a neon sign blinking away like a Christmas light. The longer he lived, the more he felt his past outweighed his future. The smallest thing could act as a trigger for remembrance, for good or for bad. Most of the time, as if hitting pause on a tape recorder, he could put an end to this ceaseless rewinding with a click of a button; nostalgia, after all, tended to kill motivation. But that wasn't what unnerved A.
For him, memory placed color before image, image before sound, sound before circumstance, and the longer he lived, the less he remembered of what actually had happened. All that remained were ceaseless colors and jagged emotions.
So when he watched that neon light blinking red now, for some reason, all he could think of was the color white. Why white? He tried to remember. He couldn't nail down what was so affectionately familiar about this. Sometimes it felt like he had lived his life many times over, each segment an old movie or an actor whose name he could not remember.
"Sir, do you need something?" The motel manager came, noticing he had been lingering for quite long.
A focused. "Do you sell cigarettes?"
"This way," he nodded, showing him to the front desk.
"I'll take five packs. Also, do you happen to have any thicker jackets that I could buy? Doesn't have to be new. We were just ill-prepared for this weather."
The manager eyed his fine topcoat, considered for a bit and muttered, "I do, but..."
"I can offer two hundred dollars, if you're willing."
"One sec." He hurriedly retrieved an old army jacket from the staff closet.
A examined the fabric, frowning at the smell of heavy dust. But he paid anyway and left with the jacket under his arm. When he passed the parking lot, he retrieved sandwiches that he had bought earlier at a gas station and tossed in the extra cigarettes.
When he returned to their room, B was leaning against the headrest on the bed, watching reruns of a football game. He had the volume turned way up, as if the room was full of people with beer and popcorn cheering all over his face.
A hung up his coat and tossed him the food and cigarettes, which B caught. "You're so sweet. You were gone for so long I thought you must've gone looking for special service." He gave a heartless laugh.
A ignored him and stripped into the shower. When he returned, B was smoking on his back, motionless as if in deep thought. His left hand supported the ashtray over his abdomen, his right hand held the cigarette fixed. The television blasted presidential campaign ads, and the roomful of football fans seemed to now engage in political debate.
A picked up the remote and turned down the volume. B said, "You can switch it off."
The sudden silence that befell made the room seem intolerably cramped. A leaned against the bed, the map in his hands making rustling sounds. B coughed, shaking soot off his smoke.
"We're in Ohio now. Should be able to get there by noon the day after tomorrow, if everything goes smoothly."
"How did he die?"
A did not expect that he would ask.
"I hear he was in the backyard one day with his bottle, simply fainted, and never got up again. The doctors said it could have been a stroke, or could have been his heart. At his age it could have been anything."
B nodded.
A turned to study him. He still seemed deep in thought, his profile sharply silhouetted by streetlight through the window, his expression cryptic. The spark at the end of his cigarette shimmered. He blew a long trail of smoke.
"I always took him for dead. And now that he finally is dead, I keep thinking he's still alive." B stared at the dark TV screen, curling up one leg.
"Yeah."
"Have you gone back since, A?"
"A few times, never for too long. Gave him some money to buy alcohol, since that really was his one hobby."
"What did he look like? I mean, had he changed?"
"Not too different, just older."
"Huh. In my mind, he's either the way I remember when I left - ripped, heavy-fisted, drunken-red in the face - or completely different from anything I can associate with him, an old wrinkled heap I'd never recognize."
"He really was old, but you could still see a shadow of what he was. An irritable youth fatally trapped in an aging body. Alcohol must have destroyed his brain after all these years; he kept confusing me for you the last few times. 'B, have you seen A?' Later still, I finally realized he thought we were the same person. This son was called B when younger, but grew up to be called A."
B laughed lightly. "I don't like lying here with you, chatting up the past as if we're the most intimately close siblings in the world."
"Siblings deep in feud are allowed to chat up the past, too."
B laughed once more, rolled over, and burrowed into the sheets.
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Alternatively: uncensored final draft here.
Dark night precipitated a blanket of white, sheet-like moisture. Water could be squeezed out of air.
B stamped his feet with his hands deep in his pockets, his nose red from the cold. His face was pale to the point of tinting blue.
A said, "I think the first order of business should be getting you proper clothes." Walking over, he handed B one of two steaming cups of coffee.
"This weather could kill. No wind, no rain, no snow, suddenly no leaves on the trees either, and the river frozen over. Air's suffocating."
"Where is the car?" A asked, quietly considering whether to offer B his own clothes. But as soon as the thought formed, even he felt he should laugh at himself.
"Not far up ahead. Past this block there's a used car lot."
Not many people were in the streets, and even pigeons seemed reluctant to coo at this time on a winter's morning. A bought hotdogs from a stand, taking comfort from the brief heat.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, B digging his face in. A kept his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes squinting ahead. The first rays of daylight seeped between buildings onto the street like obscure fresh hope.
"There it is," B ran ahead.
A subconsciously smiled at his back, picking up speed as well.
Like all used car lots, this one, too, was packed with mixed brands of all types. The boss was likely still sleeping in; only a blanket-bundled teenage boy crouched in a corner chair.
"Which one?" A asked, eyeing the approaching boy.
"Looking for a car, mister?" The boy's attitude was lukewarm.
"Right here," B pointed to a white '67 Chevy Impala.
"How much?" A asked.
"Eight grand, limited edition modified, ready to go," was the boy's apathetic answer.
"Do you take checks?"
"I'll have to check up with Boss for that." The boy hobbled toward the white shack in the far back.
A nodded. B was leaning against the car, waving him over. A stepped closer and leaned down for inspection.
"Isn't it a beauty?"
"It's not exactly cheap."
"Oh come on. Just imagine us, driving all the way to Denver."
A straightened and settled next to B, sighing, "Like two desperate bandits."
"Don't give me that. Just look at it like I'm borrowing from you. I can earn it back all in one night if I'm lucky." His eyes shone as he looked at A, as if abruptly having regained sobriety, or as if a pet heard its owner's return from the rattling of a door handle. "But I do enjoy your metaphor." His laugh was guiltless; dismantling A always amused him like nothing else could.
The boss was a beefy man, wobbling toward them in a leather overcoat pulled over pajamas. His face was frozen red, and he was not thrilled to be pulled up this early. "So you finally gonna buy. But you do this to me again at this hour next time and I ain't selling." He barked at B, full of air, and eyeballed A. "Looks like you found a moneybag."
"Oh yeah. I found a private bank," B grinned as he signed the contract.
"Congratulations, you may now travel across the world in this baby." He handed the keys to A, casting a long and meaningful look that made the latter uncomfortable. A escaped by dodging into the driver's seat.
B hopped in the passenger side, let out a long sigh, and drummed the glove compartment in satisfaction. He ardently turned to A: "I don't think you're as bad anymore."
A twitched a lip. "Settle down."
"To Denver!"
-
B awoke with his teeth chattering. Peeping out the window showed they were on some interstate.
"How long have I slept?" He straightened, noticing A's coat covering him like a blanket.
"Mh," A checked his watch. "It's almost three now, so probably eight hours."
"Wanna switch?"
"No, I'm good."
"Don't tell me the heater's broken," B ran his hand over a vent. "Fuck."
Winter, Tropic of Capricorn, short days, long nights.
B put up his feet against the windshield, pressing his forehead against the misted passenger window as he gazed out.
A threw a map at him. "Check where we are. I'm not familiar with these parts."
"Looks like rain." B pulled out a blunt, took a drag, and offered it to A's lip. The latter twisted his head away and B laughed, dragging a finger across A's neck as he retracted. "You should, just so you don't fall asleep and kill us both."
"A, look outside. You really should take a good fucking look outside. You never would seriously look, it's like you're fucking scared. Scared shitless that if you ever do look closely enough, you'll see or realize something that'll kill you. But some things you should still see whether you live or die.
"When I walked out the door yesterday, a leaf landed squarely on my head. My favorite black pepper sauce sold out, so I bought cigs at the supermarket instead. They had a lottery thing going on and I hit the jack for three grand. I put the claim ticket in my pants pocket, stocked up on more cigs and weed, and then ran into my ex. Said he wanted to fuck. There was a dead dog frozen outside my building, it looked so peaceful. When I unlocked the door, for some reason I thought of you.
"Of course he later took my pants, my money, and my cigs, though he didn't touch the weed. But I'm not bereft, because, as I told him, I'm leaving, I'm going away, in my Impala, with that person standing at the door.
"It is raining now, never mind all that sunshine this morning. You tell me whether that's a good omen or bad.
"New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, I-90, straight on. AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Survivor, Warrant, Kansas, all the way west. Thunderstorm, lightning, hail, heaven, hell.
"I'm gonna tune in, A. Holler when we're in Denver."
A turned on the headlights as evening sky drained through the windshield. Gray road met gray sky at vision's edge; dry grass blew.
White Impala along I-90, little brother in tow. He would take them home to a dead father, to bury him home.
Everything tasted surreal, as none of this belonged in his regular life. But strangely, all of this reignited in him an agitation he hadn't felt in too long. Like a youth first opening the door to adventure.
-
A pulled up to a motel and shook B awake. The effect of marijuana had long since expired, and he was in a sluggish daze.
"Out," he had to explain, "We're staying here tonight."
B got in the shower. A stepped out alone, feeling the night breeze. No stars tonight.
He paused at the door, watching a neon sign blinking away like a Christmas light. The longer he lived, the more he felt his past outweighed his future. The smallest thing could act as a trigger for remembrance, for good or for bad. Most of the time, as if hitting pause on a tape recorder, he could put an end to this ceaseless rewinding with a click of a button; nostalgia, after all, tended to kill motivation. But that wasn't what unnerved A.
For him, memory placed color before image, image before sound, sound before circumstance, and the longer he lived, the less he remembered of what actually had happened. All that remained were ceaseless colors and jagged emotions.
So when he watched that neon light blinking red now, for some reason, all he could think of was the color white. Why white? He tried to remember. He couldn't nail down what was so affectionately familiar about this. Sometimes it felt like he had lived his life many times over, each segment an old movie or an actor whose name he could not remember.
"Sir, do you need something?" The motel manager came, noticing he had been lingering for quite long.
A focused. "Do you sell cigarettes?"
"This way," he nodded, showing him to the front desk.
"I'll take five packs. Also, do you happen to have any thicker jackets that I could buy? Doesn't have to be new. We were just ill-prepared for this weather."
The manager eyed his fine topcoat, considered for a bit and muttered, "I do, but..."
"I can offer two hundred dollars, if you're willing."
"One sec." He hurriedly retrieved an old army jacket from the staff closet.
A examined the fabric, frowning at the smell of heavy dust. But he paid anyway and left with the jacket under his arm. When he passed the parking lot, he retrieved sandwiches that he had bought earlier at a gas station and tossed in the extra cigarettes.
When he returned to their room, B was leaning against the headrest on the bed, watching reruns of a football game. He had the volume turned way up, as if the room was full of people with beer and popcorn cheering all over his face.
A hung up his coat and tossed him the food and cigarettes, which B caught. "You're so sweet. You were gone for so long I thought you must've gone looking for special service." He gave a heartless laugh.
A ignored him and stripped into the shower. When he returned, B was smoking on his back, motionless as if in deep thought. His left hand supported the ashtray over his abdomen, his right hand held the cigarette fixed. The television blasted presidential campaign ads, and the roomful of football fans seemed to now engage in political debate.
A picked up the remote and turned down the volume. B said, "You can switch it off."
The sudden silence that befell made the room seem intolerably cramped. A leaned against the bed, the map in his hands making rustling sounds. B coughed, shaking soot off his smoke.
"We're in Ohio now. Should be able to get there by noon the day after tomorrow, if everything goes smoothly."
"How did he die?"
A did not expect that he would ask.
"I hear he was in the backyard one day with his bottle, simply fainted, and never got up again. The doctors said it could have been a stroke, or could have been his heart. At his age it could have been anything."
B nodded.
A turned to study him. He still seemed deep in thought, his profile sharply silhouetted by streetlight through the window, his expression cryptic. The spark at the end of his cigarette shimmered. He blew a long trail of smoke.
"I always took him for dead. And now that he finally is dead, I keep thinking he's still alive." B stared at the dark TV screen, curling up one leg.
"Yeah."
"Have you gone back since, A?"
"A few times, never for too long. Gave him some money to buy alcohol, since that really was his one hobby."
"What did he look like? I mean, had he changed?"
"Not too different, just older."
"Huh. In my mind, he's either the way I remember when I left - ripped, heavy-fisted, drunken-red in the face - or completely different from anything I can associate with him, an old wrinkled heap I'd never recognize."
"He really was old, but you could still see a shadow of what he was. An irritable youth fatally trapped in an aging body. Alcohol must have destroyed his brain after all these years; he kept confusing me for you the last few times. 'B, have you seen A?' Later still, I finally realized he thought we were the same person. This son was called B when younger, but grew up to be called A."
B laughed lightly. "I don't like lying here with you, chatting up the past as if we're the most intimately close siblings in the world."
"Siblings deep in feud are allowed to chat up the past, too."
B laughed once more, rolled over, and burrowed into the sheets.
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
047. Caught in translation, part 1
Censored names to prove a point. Uncensored complete final draft found here.
The World of Yesterday
Original by 老莫, translation by yours truly
It was 11PM when A landed in New York. He found B's apartment following directions from a father's friend, but now felt a slight hesitation upon knocking as he heard the rapid panting penetrating through the door from within. Guilelessly, he decided to grab a drink from a local bar to pass the time. Sip by sip he drained his whiskey, glanced at his watch, and ordered a second round. Drunkards still lingered at the bar when he stood to leave, but the streets outside had already emptied. It was 3AM by this time, and B's window was dark. Inwardly A hoped he wasn't yet asleep, for otherwise that would surely muddle what could potentially be a joyous reunion.
B lived in a shabby complex that may or may not have ever seen better days. The unlit corridor, darker than starless nights, stank of mold and cold cigarettes. He was bleary-eyed as he opened the door, his unbuttoned jeans clearly pulled on only seconds before, loose belt clicking as it swung. A could not make out his brother's face, but the smell of smoke and alcohol wafting out stirred at once his memory of B's hands, a spicy yet arresting scent. He did not laugh at this moment in time. He simply said, "B. It's me."
Farther inside the apartment a yellow lamp seeped into the darkness, followed by a man's voice, slurred yet deep, like ice water on hot stone. That distant voice called, "B, who is it?" Seemingly hadn't heard, B blocked the entrance as he leaned against the doorframe to gaze upon A: "Why did you come." No warmth in his voice, and not a question.
"Father passed," A said.
B lowered his head, silent for a moment. "Let's talk outside," he turned as he finally spoke, tightening his belt as he walked back to the bedroom. A remained at the entrance, gazing inside as the strip of warm light was abruptly cut by the slammed bedroom door. He looked away, his hands in his pockets. A weakly blinking light from the TV stand and his white breath were the only visible things.
All of this felt nostalgic to him. B, standing alone, winter night, and wordless silence.
A heard conversation traversing the walls from within, low hums slowing rising to the pitch of argument, a beast abandoning its den upon awakening from hibernation.
B threw the door shut as he walked out, avoiding the sound of broken glass trailing him by a beat. A fire held close to his face briefly defined his features, albeit no expression worthy of description was worn. Cigarette in mouth and buttoning up his thin flannel shirt, he nodded at A.
A said, "It's cold out."
B gave him a sidelong glance as he cocked his head, exhaling smoke through his smile. He hurried down the stairs ahead of A.
-
The bar was still open, apparently with 24-hour service. It gave off a vibe in tune with its "Old Mariner" store sign.
B was familiar with the barista, yelling a greeting from across the room. A chose a booth close to the window as B asked, "What'd you get?"
"Whiskey," he said as he removed his coat.
B walked toward the bar: "Two whiskeys."
The barista smiled. "That your brother? When he came at first I thought he's you, but you're not alike. I'm talking certain aspects."
B mumbled a vague reply and returned with their drinks.
And thus they now sat, across from each other, less than an arm's length apart - two identical faces, both expressionless, both impressively nonchalant. They had long since grown past the age where such resemblance amused them, so familiar they were with how one's eyelids folded, how many freckles adorned the other's nose, how one's lips contracted when he talked, how the other's eyes betrayed secrets when his mouth was closed. This tacit understanding was not a force that wore down with friction over time; it was a machination that not only stood beyond, but also had the capacity to reverse time's flow by second by second, year by year.
They both resented this feeling.
To see them facing each other thus would provoke curiosity in any onlooker. Never mind the lack of words exchanged - just sitting together, like so, they already were the image of an endless story.
Of all mirrored features, their twin eyes commanded the most attention. Blue like the sheen of glass, callous if held in direct contact, morose if caught looking away. A's eyes were caustic yet indifferent, bland and rational, passionless like mountain peak snow. As if to make up for the dictator's grimness in those eyes, his lips were perpetually locked in a tender smile. In contrast, B's eyes were lax and misted, as if about to break into laughter or tears without warning, as if carried away, as if drunk before the first drop ever touched a lip.
B reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, then raised a wrist to support his chin. His eyes traveled up and down A spontaneously, and crow's feet spread from the corner of his eyes like a fisherman's net. His lips held the cigarette inert as his voice rumbled from his throat: "A. I thought the next time I get to see you would have to be at my own funeral."
"How've you been?" A lowered his eyes to focus on a missing button on B's shirt, avoiding his eyes. Separation had made facing his brother exacting.
"First class. I have a place to live, a nice big bed, plenty of beer and weed, and endless men to fuck. You?" B shifted, his finger tapping against his glass, his eyes narrowed as if unconcerned. "I heard you got married."
"I divorced."
"Good news always come last!"
A was not perturbed, as if used to this.
"So, it's been what - ten? eleven? how many years again?" B knotted his eyebrows to think as he pulled out another two cigarettes. "Sixteen! That's right, first we've met in sixteen years. Should we celebrate?" He offered a cigarette to A, but A shook his head. B withdrew with his head down, chuckling: "How did that saying go, back home? 'You can change which way the sun goes up, but you can't change your brother.'"
"I came here because--"
"Of course, how can I forget. For you to come find me, there's always got to be something. Something big. Old man's dead."
"Yes."
"And? He inviting his disowned son here to drink a toast down under?"
"His funeral is in four days. I already have lawyers and pastors taking care of everything, I just want you there in attendance with me. There are also matters concerning the will."
"I don't want anything, it's all completely yours." B leaned back into the chair, talking with open disinterest.
"Listen, A. His damned house, damned car, damned farm, damned floor tiles, bowls, coffee mugs - I don't want a thing. I don't want to even see them, that's my disposition. So you can just go ahead and hop onto your return flight, and I won't even blame you for going bad on your word in coming to see me, accidentally I'm sure." He put out his cigarette on the table and gave a low hack. His voice did not share the agitation of his words, easy and deeply smooth in contrast, if a bit dry. A couldn't help but wonder whether B had had vocal cord surgery done, for in memory he had always had a higher-pitched voice suitable for a belligerent half-pint. But the past was, after all, no longer a fair measure of the present. It had been sixteen years.
"But," B winked with a grin, "if I'm getting paid to show up, I'd be more than happy to go."
"How much do you need?"
"Eight thousand." B's smile turned sweetly vicious. "Cash."
"I don't have that much on hand. You'll have to wait until I get to a bank."
"That means you agreed?"
"Yes."
"It's sometimes not so bad to have a brother you can't stand, right A?"
"I've already purchased the return flight to Denver, 2 PM."
"No, A, I hate flights. I hate the idea of being chucked through airmail, especially along with you."
A sighed. He had never been known for having a good temper, and he would rather believe that the patience he exhibited now was skin-deep only. He composed himself with the thought that this was B's manner of expressing "Good brother, haven't seen you in so long." Handling B had always given him headaches.
"Hey A, are you cursing at me in your head again? I have a better idea. Let's drive."
"I don't have a car here."
"What luck! Me neither." B stood and headed for the exit. "Come on, let's get one. I've my eyes set on this one car for the longest time."
A picked up his coat, left money on the table, and followed out.
At B's door he ran into a short-haired man, whom A guessed was the person inside from earlier. In the dim light A could not make out his features, but he flashed a smile at A and stuffed a paper slip into his hand: "Call me." He slid past A and disappeared down the stairs whilst pulling on his jacket.
A walked in. Lights were out and he could not tell where B was. He heard B's voice lazily drifting out from farther inside: "Hey A, light switch's behind the door. The lamp in here broke."
Light flashed on as if the stage was set.
"Look what that sonofabitch did." B pointed to his floor, the total image of a break-in crime scene. "What a temper, huh. Took my money, my cigs, my clothes, even - and then trashes my entire place before bidding farewell. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. But, guess what? Let's see...let's see whether he was a real genius." B pulled out a cigarette from his shirt. "Looks like this is my last one. Suddenly very meaningful, isn't it?" He took a few drags as he sat on the edge of his bed, then suddenly picked a knife off the floor and stabbed away at a corner of his mattress. He reached his hand in and suddenly laughed, pulling out and waving something in A's direction: "But he couldn't find my weed!"
A stood at the door, frowning at the crumpled paper bits, pillow fluff, broken glass and destroyed guitar splinters littering the floor.
"Let's go, A." B hoisted a grayish corduroy jacket of unknown original color from the floor, stuffing the weed into his pockets. "Let's go," he repeated, kicking up an iron pot along the way.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Original by 老莫, translation by yours truly
It was 11PM when A landed in New York. He found B's apartment following directions from a father's friend, but now felt a slight hesitation upon knocking as he heard the rapid panting penetrating through the door from within. Guilelessly, he decided to grab a drink from a local bar to pass the time. Sip by sip he drained his whiskey, glanced at his watch, and ordered a second round. Drunkards still lingered at the bar when he stood to leave, but the streets outside had already emptied. It was 3AM by this time, and B's window was dark. Inwardly A hoped he wasn't yet asleep, for otherwise that would surely muddle what could potentially be a joyous reunion.
B lived in a shabby complex that may or may not have ever seen better days. The unlit corridor, darker than starless nights, stank of mold and cold cigarettes. He was bleary-eyed as he opened the door, his unbuttoned jeans clearly pulled on only seconds before, loose belt clicking as it swung. A could not make out his brother's face, but the smell of smoke and alcohol wafting out stirred at once his memory of B's hands, a spicy yet arresting scent. He did not laugh at this moment in time. He simply said, "B. It's me."
Farther inside the apartment a yellow lamp seeped into the darkness, followed by a man's voice, slurred yet deep, like ice water on hot stone. That distant voice called, "B, who is it?" Seemingly hadn't heard, B blocked the entrance as he leaned against the doorframe to gaze upon A: "Why did you come." No warmth in his voice, and not a question.
"Father passed," A said.
B lowered his head, silent for a moment. "Let's talk outside," he turned as he finally spoke, tightening his belt as he walked back to the bedroom. A remained at the entrance, gazing inside as the strip of warm light was abruptly cut by the slammed bedroom door. He looked away, his hands in his pockets. A weakly blinking light from the TV stand and his white breath were the only visible things.
All of this felt nostalgic to him. B, standing alone, winter night, and wordless silence.
A heard conversation traversing the walls from within, low hums slowing rising to the pitch of argument, a beast abandoning its den upon awakening from hibernation.
B threw the door shut as he walked out, avoiding the sound of broken glass trailing him by a beat. A fire held close to his face briefly defined his features, albeit no expression worthy of description was worn. Cigarette in mouth and buttoning up his thin flannel shirt, he nodded at A.
A said, "It's cold out."
B gave him a sidelong glance as he cocked his head, exhaling smoke through his smile. He hurried down the stairs ahead of A.
-
The bar was still open, apparently with 24-hour service. It gave off a vibe in tune with its "Old Mariner" store sign.
B was familiar with the barista, yelling a greeting from across the room. A chose a booth close to the window as B asked, "What'd you get?"
"Whiskey," he said as he removed his coat.
B walked toward the bar: "Two whiskeys."
The barista smiled. "That your brother? When he came at first I thought he's you, but you're not alike. I'm talking certain aspects."
B mumbled a vague reply and returned with their drinks.
And thus they now sat, across from each other, less than an arm's length apart - two identical faces, both expressionless, both impressively nonchalant. They had long since grown past the age where such resemblance amused them, so familiar they were with how one's eyelids folded, how many freckles adorned the other's nose, how one's lips contracted when he talked, how the other's eyes betrayed secrets when his mouth was closed. This tacit understanding was not a force that wore down with friction over time; it was a machination that not only stood beyond, but also had the capacity to reverse time's flow by second by second, year by year.
They both resented this feeling.
To see them facing each other thus would provoke curiosity in any onlooker. Never mind the lack of words exchanged - just sitting together, like so, they already were the image of an endless story.
Of all mirrored features, their twin eyes commanded the most attention. Blue like the sheen of glass, callous if held in direct contact, morose if caught looking away. A's eyes were caustic yet indifferent, bland and rational, passionless like mountain peak snow. As if to make up for the dictator's grimness in those eyes, his lips were perpetually locked in a tender smile. In contrast, B's eyes were lax and misted, as if about to break into laughter or tears without warning, as if carried away, as if drunk before the first drop ever touched a lip.
B reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, then raised a wrist to support his chin. His eyes traveled up and down A spontaneously, and crow's feet spread from the corner of his eyes like a fisherman's net. His lips held the cigarette inert as his voice rumbled from his throat: "A. I thought the next time I get to see you would have to be at my own funeral."
"How've you been?" A lowered his eyes to focus on a missing button on B's shirt, avoiding his eyes. Separation had made facing his brother exacting.
"First class. I have a place to live, a nice big bed, plenty of beer and weed, and endless men to fuck. You?" B shifted, his finger tapping against his glass, his eyes narrowed as if unconcerned. "I heard you got married."
"I divorced."
"Good news always come last!"
A was not perturbed, as if used to this.
"So, it's been what - ten? eleven? how many years again?" B knotted his eyebrows to think as he pulled out another two cigarettes. "Sixteen! That's right, first we've met in sixteen years. Should we celebrate?" He offered a cigarette to A, but A shook his head. B withdrew with his head down, chuckling: "How did that saying go, back home? 'You can change which way the sun goes up, but you can't change your brother.'"
"I came here because--"
"Of course, how can I forget. For you to come find me, there's always got to be something. Something big. Old man's dead."
"Yes."
"And? He inviting his disowned son here to drink a toast down under?"
"His funeral is in four days. I already have lawyers and pastors taking care of everything, I just want you there in attendance with me. There are also matters concerning the will."
"I don't want anything, it's all completely yours." B leaned back into the chair, talking with open disinterest.
"Listen, A. His damned house, damned car, damned farm, damned floor tiles, bowls, coffee mugs - I don't want a thing. I don't want to even see them, that's my disposition. So you can just go ahead and hop onto your return flight, and I won't even blame you for going bad on your word in coming to see me, accidentally I'm sure." He put out his cigarette on the table and gave a low hack. His voice did not share the agitation of his words, easy and deeply smooth in contrast, if a bit dry. A couldn't help but wonder whether B had had vocal cord surgery done, for in memory he had always had a higher-pitched voice suitable for a belligerent half-pint. But the past was, after all, no longer a fair measure of the present. It had been sixteen years.
"But," B winked with a grin, "if I'm getting paid to show up, I'd be more than happy to go."
"How much do you need?"
"Eight thousand." B's smile turned sweetly vicious. "Cash."
"I don't have that much on hand. You'll have to wait until I get to a bank."
"That means you agreed?"
"Yes."
"It's sometimes not so bad to have a brother you can't stand, right A?"
"I've already purchased the return flight to Denver, 2 PM."
"No, A, I hate flights. I hate the idea of being chucked through airmail, especially along with you."
A sighed. He had never been known for having a good temper, and he would rather believe that the patience he exhibited now was skin-deep only. He composed himself with the thought that this was B's manner of expressing "Good brother, haven't seen you in so long." Handling B had always given him headaches.
"Hey A, are you cursing at me in your head again? I have a better idea. Let's drive."
"I don't have a car here."
"What luck! Me neither." B stood and headed for the exit. "Come on, let's get one. I've my eyes set on this one car for the longest time."
A picked up his coat, left money on the table, and followed out.
At B's door he ran into a short-haired man, whom A guessed was the person inside from earlier. In the dim light A could not make out his features, but he flashed a smile at A and stuffed a paper slip into his hand: "Call me." He slid past A and disappeared down the stairs whilst pulling on his jacket.
A walked in. Lights were out and he could not tell where B was. He heard B's voice lazily drifting out from farther inside: "Hey A, light switch's behind the door. The lamp in here broke."
Light flashed on as if the stage was set.
"Look what that sonofabitch did." B pointed to his floor, the total image of a break-in crime scene. "What a temper, huh. Took my money, my cigs, my clothes, even - and then trashes my entire place before bidding farewell. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. But, guess what? Let's see...let's see whether he was a real genius." B pulled out a cigarette from his shirt. "Looks like this is my last one. Suddenly very meaningful, isn't it?" He took a few drags as he sat on the edge of his bed, then suddenly picked a knife off the floor and stabbed away at a corner of his mattress. He reached his hand in and suddenly laughed, pulling out and waving something in A's direction: "But he couldn't find my weed!"
A stood at the door, frowning at the crumpled paper bits, pillow fluff, broken glass and destroyed guitar splinters littering the floor.
"Let's go, A." B hoisted a grayish corduroy jacket of unknown original color from the floor, stuffing the weed into his pockets. "Let's go," he repeated, kicking up an iron pot along the way.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Friday, February 15, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
045. Honmei
HAPPY VALENTINES & MAY ALL LOVERS BE IDENTICAL TWINS
Possibly the best AMV of them in existence, made so many years ago that no higher quality mirror can be found through any search method in any language.
THIS MAKES NO SENSE WHY IS THE PRICE OF SAGA EX FOREVER GOING UP ON EBAY I HATE YOU CRUEL WORLD IF I HAD 300 BUCKS I'D BUY ME AN INTUOS FIRST MAYBE
OR MAYBE SCRATCH THAT I REALLY DO JUST WANT SAGA EX THAT BADLY OH MAN
Possibly the best AMV of them in existence, made so many years ago that no higher quality mirror can be found through any search method in any language.
THIS MAKES NO SENSE WHY IS THE PRICE OF SAGA EX FOREVER GOING UP ON EBAY I HATE YOU CRUEL WORLD IF I HAD 300 BUCKS I'D BUY ME AN INTUOS FIRST MAYBE
OR MAYBE SCRATCH THAT I REALLY DO JUST WANT SAGA EX THAT BADLY OH MAN
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
044. Patterns
This is why that dating sim game scared the living crap out of me and I will never touch another game of that nature again.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
043. Hair
Monday, February 11, 2013
042. From the internet
Sunday, February 10, 2013
041. Kodou
Had an odd moment just now where there arose an urge to listen to Kodou, and when I did, an...outburst happened.
How do I express this? How can I get this out? These ribs feel more like a cage than ever.
Saturday, February 09, 2013
040. Spiration
Forum culture also makes me so much more aware of the author as an actual flesh-and-blood entity, rather than an empty name printed on a stiff cover. "I love this so much I'd love to
I want to write page-long
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